If You Still Believe
by Shinigami Yumi
Summary: Charles realizes that Erik will leave him someday, but can't bring himself to force Erik to stay. Yet, some lessons take decades to learn, and it's never too late to forgive and try again. Charles/Erik, written for X-Men Big Bang 2011.
1. Sober

**Prologue: Sober**

It is eleven on a Friday night, and the pub is the noisiest thing Charles Xavier has ever heard. The music is loud, the people are loud, the thoughts are loud, and he doesn't hear what his fellow doctoral candidate is saying beside him. Joshua's thoughts are louder than his voice, though, so he manages to answer him regardless and gets a slightly too rough slap on the back. It seems funny to be bruised by bonhomie, but the pretty Welsh girl to the left is actually paying attention to him cataloguing her groovier mutations for a change, so it doesn't matter, and he finishes off his beer. He leads Anwen to the bar for more drinks, noticing for the first time the tilt to the wooden floor. Laughing at some joke she makes that he misses completely, he orders himself a scotch and her some white rum and thinks that his control must be shot because he can barely hear his own thoughts.

_He loves me. I know it. My baby girl is the sweetest thing! He's the best thing that's ever happened to me. I can't believe I'm a father! Now if you'll just... Aha! Got it. Thank you and good night. Yes yes yes! I totally lucked out on that exam! Hm, he'll be useful. I should keep him around. Is his hand..? So the UN banned nuclear arms? S—stop it! Not a moment too soon, I say. I hope I can graduate this coming June. Oh! Please, harder, please k—_

It takes the bartender slamming their drinks down on the counter in a hurry to startle him out of the sea of voices, and he has to scan Anwen to determine what she last said. Either it hasn't been too long, or present company is too drunk to care, and she laughs at his reply as they walk back to their table. A new song starts playing, people start cheering and singing along, and he downs his scotch in one go. The sweet burn chases bitter shadows into a pleasant haze, and they all rise to dance or sway to the cheery music. The words are slipping into his head, the lights are bright and dazzling, and all he can smell is eight kinds of alcohol and Anwen's perfume. He puts an arm around her as he sings along, and it spins.

* * *

><p>The Diamond Gallery lives up to its name; dancers perform on glittering crystalline platforms lit from below with a bright white light that slowly elevate through the four floors, while patrons watch through viewing windows from private rooms surrounding the rising stages and call the service center to request private dances if desired. The woman he seeks owns this club, and her office is on the top floor, so he sticks to the shadows as he searches for the stairs in the illumination provided by the flashing coloured lights. He's in the basement now, and the performers waiting for the next platform appear not to notice him slipping past towards the emergency stairway. It is unexpectedly easy to reach the fourth floor unnoticed; the security is incredibly lax for an establishment run by a member of the Hellfire Club's Inner Circle. Several employees are milling around when he arrives, so he watches and waits from behind the door. Almost an hour passes before the area clears out, and the mahogany door isn't even locked when he tries it.<p>

"Elemi Nightray, I presume?' he opens, checking for weapons as he bolts the door behind him.

The lady has a black pageboy and grey eyes, and she reclines on the burgundy divan as she calmly looks up and sets down the document she is perusing. At about five feet and seven inches with the hint of a tan, she perfectly matches the photograph and description of the Black Queen that he was given.

"Who are you, sir, and why have you come with such hostility in your heart?" she asks, curling long legs under her fuchsia and turquoise satin cocktail dress. She is unarmed.

"I seek Schmidt," he tells her, getting directly to the point. "Klaus Schmidt."

She furrows her brow in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

He chokes her with her necklace. "Don't. Feign. Ignorance."

Elemi coughs and tries to say something, so he loosens the choke-hold enough to let her. "I truly have no idea who you're talking about."

This time, he draws his gun. "Maybe this will remind you."

He sees the fear in her eyes, but to her credit, she doesn't struggle, and her voice is even when she speaks. "I cannot confess what I know nothing about. The threat of a weapon will not avail you."

He pulls the hammer back, still holding her in place with her jewellery. "I know you are the Black Queen."

She blinks. "The Club? None of the Inner Circle have that name." He curls his finger on the trigger, and she quickly adds, "But only the Lord Imperial knows everyone's true identity."

"Then tell me: How do I find this Lord Imperial?"

"Unfortunately, as you might imagine, the knowledge only goes one way."

He tightens his finger on the trigger again.

"There is a bank," she says hurriedly, a slight edge of panic to her soft alto now. "He uses it for anonymous club transactions. All the Inner Circle members, as far as I know, have an account."

"Which bank?"

"There is a letter from them on my desk." She looks left to indicate it.

Still holding her in place, he walks over to the neat and well-polished desk to look at the papers scattered on it.

"To your right, in the envelope that is slit open."

He finds and unfolds it. It is in French, but the name beneath the signature is one he recognizes. Elemi is telling the truth. He folds the letter and pockets it, releasing his hold on her. He thinks to kill her, but upon closer inspection, her features are somewhat Semitic. Additionally, she has been cooperative. He heads for the door. "For your cooperation, I will spare you, but if you warn them that I am com—"

"I cannot," she interjects quietly, adjusting the black fur capelet about her shoulders. "If they find out that I led you to them, they will kill me."

Satisfied, he doesn't look back as he makes a swift exit.

* * *

><p>It's four o'clock in the morning, and this time, Charles can't think past the throbbing. His clothes reek of alcohol, sweat and perfume, all stale, and the combination worsens his growing nausea. The room careens as he rolls gracelessly off the bed, and he manages to make it all the way to the bathroom before emptying the remains of supper into the water closet. As he slumps back against the wall to sit on the tiled floor, he notices his thighs are raw. He can't remember getting back, he can still see his mother lying cold in bed with the empty decanter, and it makes him sick all over again. The fluorescent light is too bright, but throwing up seems to have done some good. Gingerly, he rises to rinse his mouth in the sink. There's red lipstick smeared all over his ashen jaw, and his bloodshot reflection in the mirror looks too much like the one person he doesn't want to be. He washes his face and presses his forehead to the cold glass briefly. It's too obvious that Raven is back in New York. Whenever she is, he tends to forget she's not here to stop him as usual and lose track of drinks. He brushes his teeth and runs a hand through his hair before stripping himself of the foul-smelling clothes. Wrapping himself in a robe, he heads to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and stops short as he exits his room. Joshua is lying sprawled on the couch, utterly passed out and mind so blank he hadn't noticed its proximity before.<p>

_Well, that explains two things_, he muses as he pads silently towards the kitchen.

As he pours water into a glass from a pitcher in the refrigerator, he finds his thoughts drifting toward Raven again. He still remembers the night he met her, rifling through his fridge for something to eat, the night he confirmed he wasn't the only one who was different. Of course, his mother didn't approve of her staying, but by evening, she forgot she never had a daughter. She had too much difficulty noticing black bruises on white skin through her whisky glass to tackle noticing an extra person anyway. Kurt didn't like Raven either, but as long as she couldn't inherit, what was one more fixture in the house? And if he ever thought it weird that said fixture was blue, well, he soon forgot that too. As for Cain, Raven had been there for a week before he noticed someone new living in the mansion, but on the rare occasion that he paid any mind to anything besides the pain and Kurt's attention, he simply forgot he'd ever noticed. In retrospect, Charles supposes he gave them a reason.

As the years passed, one by one, they all left one way or another, and then it was just him and Raven and a mansion too big and empty to be a home. But then Harvard and Oxford came along, and apartments were smaller. Cosier. New. No photographs of what had been, no could-have-beens strewn all over his mother's room, no empty clinks of glass and metal, or the ever-present hum of machinery echoing in emptier thoughts and rooms. In the hollow silence of the wee morning hours, he flops back gracelessly in bed —too hung over to work, too restless to sleep— and stares vacantly up at the ceiling. He supposes he'd known it was coming. Kurt was a bit unexpected, but with Mother, with Cain. Perhaps there was something he could have done to change it, if he'd only intervened in time, if he'd chosen to act. From behind his eyes, he glimpses flashes of dreams, whirls of psychedelic colours shod in blood and metal. A cold breeze blows a page of his dissertation draft off his desk as he winds up his old music box, and it occurs to him that he must be doing something wrong. This isn't how his story is supposed to end.

* * *

><p>The motel room smells a little dank when he enters, but it's hardly the worst Erik has rented even in recent years. There's plenty of metal all around the room, the most important criterion in an acceptable resting place, and he sets his briefcase down on the bed. The sheets seem clean, at least. Schmidt, or whatever it is he calls himself these days (even if he'll always be Herr Doktor), has cut ties with many of his former associates, often fatally, and the few that remain have scant information. Still, there are subtle signs for the keen eye, and now, he's found the next clue in his hunt. Removing his shoes and grabbing a bottle out of the six-pack he purchased on the way in, he reclines on the bed and wills the cap off easily as he takes the letter out of his pocket. The bank's address is in Geneva. Stretching stiff muscles, he lets the coin in his pocket slip out and float over him, spinning it restlessly about his fingers as he plans out the next phase of his search. He won't give up. He must find him. He won't let it end like this.<p> 


	2. Gravity

**Chapter 1: Gravity**

The new presence is like cold rain piercing through the window of the other telepath blocking him, and for a moment, Charles is awestruck by the breathtaking sight of the anchors soaring to rip through the yacht. For a moment, he imagines those chains winding around him, into him, but he shakes himself. He can sense it, that searing single-minded rage and determination, and _he's not listening. He's not listening to me. He's going to die; oh my God, he'll drown; he's going to die! No, no, no, you can't, you can't, you can't,_ and he's diving into cool black water heedlessly. His name is... Erik these days, and his mind is like the night air —sometimes the cold of winter, sometimes the heat of summer— dark, sharp, tempestuous, the promise of forbidden secrets, and it's like breathing for the first time; he feels alive. The body he wraps his arms around is all corded muscle and latent strength, and he hopes the fluttering of his heart doesn't waft over when he tells him to let the submarine go.

_You can't; you'll drown; you have to let go. I know what this means to you, but you're going to die._ An entire lifetime flashes by behind his eyes; it's broken and tragic and painful, and he wants more than anything to keep Erik safe in his arms forever. _Please don't die, Erik. Don't waste your life, all that potential. Oh God, I'll make you if I have to._ In his panic, he's not entirely sure which of his thoughts he's projecting, but as long as it works, it doesn't matter. _Please, Erik, calm your mind_. To his relief, Erik does and without his manipulation; he can barely contain his excitement and elation as he drags him to the surface.

"Get off me!" The German struggles against him, now angry at him instead. "Get off!"

"Calm down!"

Maybe he does a little more than say it, but he can't be certain as he shouts to the ship to have them picked up.

"Who are you?"

"My name's Charles Xavier."

The other man doesn't introduce himself, but he already knows. Erik Lehnsherr, German Jew, Holocaust survivor, aspiring avenger of his mother's murder, a powerful mutant. "You were in my head. How did you do that?" Ah. Well, considering his recent experience with telepaths, he supposes Erik has every right to be distrustful.

"You have your tricks; I have mine. I'm like you. Just calm your mind."

"I thought I was alone."

"You're not alone." He's smiling giddily like a child who's just discovered Candyland, like the fireworks far away are all going off in his chest instead of the midnight sky, and he'd take Erik's hands if they weren't occupied with treading water off the coast of Miami. "Erik, you're not alone."

* * *

><p>He's at breakfast with Raven and Moira at the hotel they stopped in for the night, picking up a mouthful of omelette with his fork, when Erik walks in. His hair is damp, fresh from the shower, and he moves with the graceful languor of someone who's just had a thorough workout. The black turtleneck and fitting khakis cling to his form, and Charles has to consciously avoid staring. There's something about the man that's aptly magnetic, he decides. It was quite difficult to keep his gaze from gravitating towards Erik that first night on the ship too. The wetsuit was most striking. Then there was sitting between him and Raven throughout the entirety of every car ride, feeling muscular arms and thighs pressed up against his own. Given a few more pounds, Erik would probably have the physique sculptors carved marble statues of.<p>

"Fine as wine, isn't he? This new guy we've picked up," Raven murmurs appreciatively as Erik picks out his breakfast at the buffet table.

It takes him a moment of confusion to realise that she's talking to Moira. That's precisely the observation he _doesn't_ need, though, because, yes, yes, Erik is _very_ attractive, and Charles's thoughts are on the trajectory of a teenage boy's. It's just been a long time, he tells himself. He spent most of the months leading up to graduation working furiously on perfecting his doctoral thesis, so he really hadn't given much else any thought since January. And yet, it's not just the physical attraction. Everything about Erik intrigues him, from his gift of magnetic force to his history with Shaw at Auschwitz, and remembering the pain and rage he felt that night makes him want to protect the other man somehow. His psyche is covered in scars, just like his body beneath the turtlenecks he wears to conceal them, and maybe, Charles thinks, if they can get away from all this vengeance and suffering Erik has built his life around, the mental scars, at least, can heal.

"Oh, is that the type you're interested in?" Moira responds, amused, briskly slicing the sausage on her plate.

"Not really, but it's a nice view, regardless."

"Raven here could have any man she wants if only she'd spend more time on her own love life instead of trying to ruin mine," he remarks smoothly just as Erik turns, and their eyes meet across the dining area. He doesn't look away until he's certain the other is coming to join them.

Moira laughs. "Well, someone has to keep you in line," she ripostes, winking at Raven across the table. "But you're right, Raven, he is. Carries himself like a soldier, though. Not the kind of company I enjoy."

_Well, he's on his way here to join us, so we should probably switch topics_, he tells her, looking pointedly over her shoulder at the approaching German. He swallows a piece of bacon and dabs at his mouth with a serviette before rising. "Good morning, Erik. How nice of you to join us." The corners of Erik's lips quirk slightly,but he doesn't quite smile. He doesn't trust us, Charles observes. _Not yet._ But he can change that. He _will_ change that. Soon.

"Good morning," Erik returns the greeting, taking the one empty seat beside Moira. "How far away is this place?"

"About an hour's drive from here," Moira replies, apologetic. "I'm sorry we couldn't get a more convenient flight at such last minute notice."

"And Shaw?" There's a sort of single-mindedness to the way he methodically cuts everything into pieces of roughly the same size and eats an equal portion of each item in turn.

"We'll get an update as soon as we arrive. The CIA has been tracking him, albeit probably not for as long as you have. With your information, we can probably figure out his current location if we haven't already."

This seems to satisfy him, and he nods, resuming his work on his breakfast. They all exchange glances at the sudden awkward silence that descends over the table, and Charles tries to think of a good thing to talk about. Of all the things he saw in Erik's mind that night in the water, an indication that they might share a certain interest isn't one of them. He could just read the other man's mind, of course, but probing tends to be noticeable where simple checks are not. In order for him to be able to pick it up with a simple check, the target has to be actively thinking about something. The challenge then is getting Erik to actively think about it. Conveniently, the news on the dining room television switches to more discussion on a recent court case about sending risque photographs of men out through the mail in magazines. After a few moments, he slips Moira a subtle suggestion to air her opinion on the matter.

"I think they shouldn't be sending nude pictures of anyone out through the mail, regardless of whether the models are male or female," she remarks disapprovingly. "The mail is an awfully public avenue of distribution, after all. I've seen little children open their family's mailboxes and the mail inside, you know."

"Honestly, I think they're just making an extra huge deal of the whole affair because it's supposedly aimed at homosexual men," he says dismissively, eating another mouthful of his breakfast. "No one's taking Playboy magazine to court."

Raven rolls her eyes. "Men walk around semi-nude on the beach all the time. I don't see why those pictures of them are _so_ shocking."

Erik doesn't contribute to the conversation, but when Charles checks on his thoughts, the general impression he gets is that Erik doesn't care who people want to fuck or see nude pictures of. And that the idea of men buggering each other doesn't bother him in the slightest. He smiles as he clears his plate. Nothing like a good start to get him motivated. They can't be caught, of course, but if people could master being discreet within the sleepless walls of Oxford, he doesn't think laying low out here will be a problem. Still, Erik isn't the type to stick around without a specific objective, so he needs a plan, a good one, before Erik goes and gets himself killed by Shaw. Unexpectedly, the thought makes his heart clench painfully in his chest, and the realization exasperates him. It's too soon, he tells himself, far too soon, but he can't help the strange sense of urgency.

* * *

><p>Erik orders his fourth beer of the night, wondering why he's even here. Two hours ago, this telepath (Charles Xavier, he said was his name) came to find him, saying he wanted to talk, that they should go get drinks and that there was a place nearby that served fantastic brews. The part he hadn't lied about was the beer, which is excellent. The conversation, on the other hand... Well, the geneticist is certainly talking a lot where he's seated at a nearby table. He's surrounded by young ladies, all dressed rather provocatively, who are probably humouring his nonsense about mutations for the free drinks. Of course, it helps that the man is very attractive with his cheeky smile, startlingly blue eyes and the shapely curve of his arse accentuated by his custom-tailored slacks, but Erik has no intention of wasting his time here while his fellow mutant gets utterly blitzed and looks to score a skirt or several.<p>

As the younger man heads back to his side at the bar to order the group another round of drinks, he taps him on the shoulder and tells him, "Since it doesn't look like we'll be talking tonight, I'm leaving."

The way the other's face falls is a little surprising. "No, no, Erik, wait." He runs a hand through his hair. "God, I am so sorry about this, my friend. I'll go with you."

He's about to tell him that that won't be necessary, but Xavier is already telling the bartender to get the group another round regardless and to close out his tab after that.

"I thought we'd have a blast, but I guess this isn't quite your scene." He finishes the rest of his scotch in one gulp. "Say, did I ever tell you that that turtleneck and leather jacket combination you wear are some of the grooviest threads I've ever seen on a man? It looks awfully sharp on you."

Erik raises an eyebrow. _This_ is the man who will help him find Schmidt?

"And, oh, your eyes," he continues as he pays the bartender absently. "They're _such_ a lovely aquamarine. That colour is a mutation, you know. A v—"

"You're right, Dr. Xavier, you're coming with me. I think you've had far more than enough to drink," he interrupts firmly, wrapping an arm around slighter shoulders to briskly escort his companion to the exit.

"Charles," he corrects without complaint at being herded out of the establishment. "Please call me Charles, Erik."

"Right. Charles," Erik agrees as they begin the short walk back to the facility they're staying in, letting go once they're some yards away.

As they turn onto an empty street, though, Charles wraps an arm around his waist and tilts his head to rest it on his shoulder. "Mm, is that aftershave? You smell good," he murmurs, nuzzling at his neck, and Erik is mortified to remember that they share a room, which means he will have to endure the man's drunken flirtations all night. Strictly speaking, he doesn't mind Charles's advances, but as a drunken phase, this is simply awkward.

"Get a grip on yourself," he mutters, extricating himself from the other's hold as they walk onto the premises of Division X.

Fortunately, Charles seems content to just trail after him as they walk through the doors and down the few short corridors to the room they are sharing temporarily. He removes his jacket as he walks in, leaving Charles to shut the door behind them, and sets it beside him on the bed as he sits down to take his shoes off. Charles locks the door and makes his way over to the beds as well, but instead of stopping at his own, he comes to sit beside him.

"Is s—"

Erik doesn't get to finish because Charles is suddenly kissing him, straddling his lap as he does so, and this isn't anything like the teasing flirtation from earlier. This is deliberate, and something tells him Charles isn't nearly as intoxicated as he's been led to believe. He pulls away to get a better look at the other's face, and he's right.

"What is this about?"

"You were looking at _me_ earlier, not the girls. It didn't bother you that I was flirting with you either. And you don't mind, do you? That I'm really quite sober, and I've been wanting to french you all night?" Charles answers honestly, and he has to give the man credit for being unexpectedly more devious than he seems. It's an attribute he can appreciate in someone who's helping him track down a certain doctor.

"So this entire night was a set up to see if I'd be opposed to being seduced?" he asks with a slight grin, letting a hand rest on Charles's hip and slipping a finger beneath his waistband. "Is this how you do everything, Charles? Forge ahead, and then see if it works?"

"Well, I'd say it's pretty successful right now," the other replies, closing the distance between them once more.

The kiss is slower this time, deeper, and Charles has his arms around him and his fingers in his hair. When Erik parts his lips to slide his tongue along the other's, Charles shivers against him with a soft moan and presses him backwards into the bed, gentle but sure. A hand is fumbling with his belt buckle when the knock comes.

"Fuck," Charles mutters with vehemence, pulling away hurriedly. "It's Moira."

Erik frowns. "You can make her leave," he points out quietly.

There's a hint of regret in the look Charles gives him. "No," he murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to his temple. "No, my friend. It's important, I'm afraid."

Erik sits up at that. Important can only mean one thing. "Shaw?"

Charles nods, getting to his feet and rearranging his clothing. "No exact location yet, but it seems there are some new leads, and she's wondering if you can help," he says, walking over to open the door. "Good evening, Moira. Of course, we'll be right there."

There is a pause before she replies with a laugh, "Oh, of course. I keep forgetting you can do that, Charles."

He gives her a sheepish smile. "I don't usually, but I had to check if it was worth staying up for."

"Oh, were you about to sleep? I'm sorry."

"No, no. You were right to come find us. It's important. Isn't it, Erik?" he asks as Erik joins them at the door.

"Very," he answers curtly. "Let's go."

_Erik?_ It's Charles's voice in his head again as they walk briskly down the corridors. It's a strange sensation, but not unpleasant. _I... That wasn't on the spur of the moment._

He glances sideways at the telepath, who doesn't turn. _You know I am only here for one reason, _he reminds him.

_I do indeed._ The sense of dejection that accompanies that thought startles him because it hasn't even been three days since they first met. Charles turns to him and smiles wanly. _It doesn't matter, though. Just forget it, all right?_

Erik doesn't know what to say to that, but fortunately, they've arrived at their destination, and Moira is already talking about the new information they have, so he devotes his attention to locating Shaw instead. It's easy enough to concentrate on. After all, he's only been at it for years.


	3. Together

**Chapter 2: Together**

The government continues to test nuclear weapons in preparation for impending nuclear war, a sure sign that Herr Doktor is on the move, and Erik doesn't have time for the CIA and their bureaucratic bullshit. He can find Schmidt faster on his own.

Stealing all the information on Shaw he doesn't already have, he quietly exits the facility. He can't say he's surprised to find Charles waiting by the door (of course he would know, of course), but he is surprised that the telepath doesn't really even try to stop him.

"What do you know about me?" he asks.

"Everything." And he wonders if Charles can ever really understand, if it will ever be more than a tragedy this wealthy English brat saw at the cinema, even as said brat talks about him needing help. Help? The man can't even understand his own sister, let alone a stranger with bigger problems. He is irksomely arrogant but earnestly compassionate, and it is that rare sincerity that makes Erik turn.

"I won't stop you leaving," he's saying, even though his eyes are begging him to stay. "I could, but I won't." And to be honest, Erik doesn't know what to do with that. He's not used to being _given_ choices.

Instead, Charles speaks of things to come, grand things, of his people, _their_ people, of a future beyond his vengeance on Schmidt, something greater than himself. Maybe he does more than merely speak.

"Help me shape it," he says, "guide it. _Lead_ it," promising him a kingdom and a home, that they will rule together, and in those brilliant blue eyes, he sees that together is the word that matters, that will make it home.

And for a moment, he can see it, Charles and himself reigning over a free nation of mutants, sequestered up high in their very own castle, safe from humans and doctors and the horrors of the world, and he doesn't dare to hope, but when he's looking at Charles, he almost believes it, believes that Charles can build that castle out of dreams alone. _Together._ A moment is all it takes, and Charles only retreats because he knows he has won.

_You know why I'm here, what I will do, how this will end._

_Yes, yes and no. I'm a telepath, not a precognitive._

_I'm sure you don't have to extrapolate very far._

_...yes._

_And you still want to?_

_Yes, Erik. Yes, I do._

* * *

><p>The first time is hard and fast and intense, not quite the continuation he expected of that night, and it only leaves him wanting more. His nerves are frazzled from using Cerebro, the room is spinning a little, and his mind is too raw from the sudden stretch to hide anything as powerful as the way his body responds to Erik catching him in his arms as he staggers off the dais. He gasps, meeting aquamarine eyes; it's magnetic, and his control slips just a little, but the brief taste of desire makes it hard to walk the short distance back to their quarters. They barely make it through the door before Erik is ripping off whatever clothing he's wearing that won't unfasten itself, and Erik taking him against the wall shatters what little control he has left. His lips are red and wet as Erik attacks his mouth with fervour, and his nails leave grooves in sun-kissed skin as callused hands steer him into the sky like the X-15. It's further than he's ever gone with a man, and it doesn't matter. They would be arrested if they were found out, and <em>God, it doesn't matter.<em> Everything overlaps and blurs, and all too soon, it's over. It's like coming down from perfection; Charles has had it both ways before, but never quite like this, never quite this _good._

"God, Charles, what did you...?" Erik is asking breathlessly by his ear.

He laughs shakily. "I'm afraid my restraint was lost before we even got here, my friend."

"Then don't ever control yourself," Erik commands gruffly, and in the next moment, he is being cradled to the bed.

Charles doesn't think he could if he tried.

* * *

><p>Charles is standing by the window with one hand in his pocket, looking out into the night with a glass of water in his other hand when Erik enters the room they are sharing for the night at a quaint bed and breakfast in suburban Pennsylvania. The mutant they initially came to recruit was one of nineteen people who died in the train crash in Steelton the week prior, which crushed Charles to discover. Charles froze when he reached out to knock on the front door, his face growing ashen, and then they left, Charles muttering that they should have come earlier. They were walking down a mostly empty street when he stopped abruptly.<p>

"Erik," he said, suddenly a little excited. "I just... One of us is close by." He turned and started walking in a different direction. "She's strong, too. Oh." He seemed to deflate a little, but didn't stop.

"Oh, what?" he asked, keeping up easily.

"It seems she's comatose, but no matter, let's go see her anyway. Maybe there's something we can learn."

So they went to the house Charles pinpointed and persuaded her parents to let them see her, and he saw the true scope of Charles's gift as the little redhead opened her eyes for the first time in many months. They decided to leave her with her family and not recruit her just yet because she was still such a young child, and she'd only just woken up from a coma after losing her best friend in a traffic accident. Still, Charles was clearly impressed by what he saw in her, and the more he heard, the more he too wanted her to join their cause.

"She's really something, isn't she?" Charles interrupts his thoughts. "Jean has a lot of potential."

"No, _you're_ really something, Charles," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around Charles's waist and nuzzling soft chocolate-coloured hair briefly. Charles smells like rosewood, almonds and ginger, some kind of expensive cologne, no doubt. "Did you see her parents' faces when she woke up? You may as well have been Jesus Christ."

Charles laughs softly and practically melts into his arms. As if he belonged there. As if he always has. "You flatter me, Erik. It's a miracle she survived being linked to someone as they died. All that was left to do was a simple matter of convincing her mind that it is, in fact, alive and doing a little bit of repairing on her damaged psyche."

"That doesn't sound simple."

"Yes, it... Mm, well, I suppose not. It's hard even to explain," he admits sheepishly, but Erik can tell the compliment is appreciated. On occasions like these, though, he supposes Charles has the right to preen.

He chuckles and kisses a pale temple in mixed admiration and affection. Charles finishes his water and sets the glass down on the windowsill before covering his hands with his own.

"I had to seal her telepathy because her mind is still too weak to control it in its present state, but a telepath _and_ a telekinetic, Erik! I think she'll be stronger than you or I someday," he continues happily.

"Wonderful. Then we can retire and let her take over," he jokes. Mentally, he scoffs.

"No, no, I said either one of us, Erik, not us both. I'm sure there'll be many people stronger than either one of us, but together, my friend, you and I, we can change the world!" Charles proclaims, and for a moment, Erik envies his carefree exuberance, his rounded and delicate frame, his satin-soft skin and his idealistic optimism born of a life sheltered in privilege. In anyone else, it would be grating; in Charles, it's a bit endearing. More than anything, it makes him want to protect him, preserve it. When Charles turns to look at him, he captures soft lips, and warm arms wrap around his neck. It seems like only such a short time ago that they first met, but Charles speaks of together like it is a given, like it was meant to be, like it is what they always will be. "I would like that, Erik," he whispers when they part. "Would you?"

"Are you reading my mind?" he demands, but there's little heat in it. It's Charles. Still, it's the principle of the matter. Just because he lets him in occasionally doesn't mean he doesn't value his privacy.

"Oops, sorry, sorry." He punctuates the words with a chaste kiss and a chuckle. "It's terribly difficult not to when we're like this, I'm afraid," he adds, still beaming up at him like he's overjoyed just to be here.

He doesn't doubt that Charles does love him, lofty as his talk of eternity may be. There is no deceit to be found in the other's affections. Micro-expressions are as close to the truth as one can get without psionic abilities, and reading them has aided him greatly, so he believes the little things Charles imagines they'll do together — the pets, the gardening, the cottage in the highlands by the sea. He tugs the slighter man closer, Charles rests his head on his shoulder, and he dares to think that maybe... maybe they can keep each other safe, allows himself to hope just a little, to imagine a world that they can make better.

"Where's our next stop?" he asks, tracing random shapes on the other man's side through the light blue jumper.

Charles thinks for a moment, searching his perfect memory, before answering, "Indiana."

"We should sleep then," he says, hefting his companion over his shoulder easily. "Long journey ahead."

"Hey! E— Erik! Put me down!" Charles laughs instead of struggling, however, and pulls him along when he deposits him on the bed that isn't covered in their things, snuggling closer for a good night kiss but not letting go even after receiving it. He uses his powers to flip the light switch, plunging the room into darkness, and Charles settles in his arms under the covers. The moonlight casts an ethereal glow on his partner's skin as he twirls brown locks around his fingers. Charles begins humming softly, a vaguely familiar classical piece, and it has almost lulled him to sleep when the other pipes up suddenly, voice quiet and contemplative, "Mm, Erik?"

"Hm?"

A pause. "Life is... really fragile, is it not? Brief, ephemeral."

"Still about the train crash?"

"That may be what called it to mind, but do we not take many things for granted, my friend?"

_You're one to talk_, is what he thinks, but aloud, he says, "Some more than others."

"I heard that, you know," the telepath mutters, sounding a little miffed. "But you may be right. People do have a tendency of getting used to having what they have."

"Will you ever get used to having me?" The question left his mouth without conscious thought, and he is briefly chagrined by how absurd it sounds, but Charles's reply is instantaneous.

"You, my friend? No, never you, Erik. I think it'll always be a little bit of a mini miracle to me that you're here, that we met, that you stayed, that you... feel the same."

Yes, he still remembers the sheer _delight_ he'd seen in Charles when he showed up at the office the morning after he tried to leave. The way the telepath lit up could have illuminated the entire facility, and they almost forgot that the CIA officer was even there. That was when he started thinking that maybe there was something beyond desire; maybe the promise he saw the night before in blue eyes was genuine.

"Charles?"

There's a weight in his chest, and it's as if his body has forgotten how to breathe.

"Yes?"

He opens his mouth, hesitates and closes it. At length, he tries again. "I'd really like that," he says simply, and when it is met with silence, he clarifies, _Your earlier question._

This time, Charles doesn't have to say a word.


	4. All Of A Twist

**Chapter 3: All of A Twist**

It is early afternoon by the time they are done checking into the hotel in Los Angeles, and even Erik is too tired from all the travelling to be in any mood to go on the next round of their recruitment drive. He doesn't even bother to remove his socks before sprawling haphazardly on the bed and only shifts slightly when Charles comes to join him, a copy of the local daily in hand. The telepath props himself up with pillows to read, and Erik crawls forward to rest his head in a warm lap. A hand buries itself in his hair, and the wave of contentment he receives from Charles relaxes him enough to drift off.

He wakes to the sensation of fingertips tracing the lines of his face in the waning sunlight, and he's surprised to find his head on a pillow with Charles lying beside him looking like his life is complete. "Did you move me?"

"No, you moved yourself. I only slipped the pillow under you."

Erik doesn't think he's ever slept so soundly, especially in the presence of another, and the realization is perturbing. He frowns. He should have felt his head being lifted.

Charles pokes the creases on his forehead playfully. "Trying to get more wrinkles earlier?" he teases.

"I didn't feel that."

"Hm? Oh." He pauses momentarily before explaining, "You did, but I felt you stir and didn't want to wake you, so I gave you a slight nudge back to sleep."

Anger is the instinctual response, and he fights it down a moment too late because Charles recoils as if from a physical blow. Even with the best of intentions, some liberties should not be taken so easily. "Don't do that again," he says, calming himself, but his tone is clipped nonetheless.

Charles nods, looking genuinely penitent, and it's incredibly difficult to stay mad while comparing the object of one's anger to a kicked puppy. "I'm sorry. You were tired. I didn't want to disturb you."

He slides a fingertip down the nape of the other's neck, and Charles tilts his head up instinctively to meet Erik's gaze. "I know," he says, more gently this time, holding him in place. "But don't. Promise me."

"I promise it will not happen again." That earns him a peck on the forehead, a sign that his apology is accepted. It brings a smile back, and his next words are, "Now that you're already awake, though, and we're leaving recruitment till tomorrow, would you like to come to the theatre with me?"

Erik almost rolls his eyes. Charles and his renaissance aristocratic pastimes. He plays chess with a set hand-carved out of three different kinds of wood, collects books for and reads classics from his personal library, plays croquet, golf, and cricket, and listens to classical music on a gramophone. Whenever it is not terribly inconvenient, he takes tea at the proper time with all the proper trimmings, and at a time in which film and television is the new rage, his idea of a date is to go to the theatre, opera or orchestra. He even insists they dress up for it.

Once they are suited up and Erik has joked about hailing a hansom cab instead of driving to suit his friend's antiquarian English gentleman sensibilities, he lets Charles wax lyrical on the way about the musical they are going to watch.

"A musical? How _avant-garde_ of you, Charles."

"Don't ruin this for me, Erik."

"If I wanted to ruin it for you, I'd refuse to come."

"Yes, well. The book is a classic, my friend! Haven't you read it?"

"I'm sure I had all that free time growing up," he answers dryly as they park and disembark, wondering if Charles realizes how condescending he sounds sometimes.

Charles pauses briefly at that before going, "Well, I shan't spoil it for you then."

As they walk into the theatre, it occurs to him that British musicals often premiere in England. "Didn't you watch this while you were at Oxford?"

"Unfortunately, I was busy with research and meetings for my doctorate, so I ended up missing it every time."

There is a certain air of class to the theatre that doesn't stem from expensive tickets or decor, and they don't seem out of place dressing more than casually for the occasion. At any rate, Charles would probably notice if anyone was around to be wary of. Regardless, he still makes note of every entrance, exit and hiding place.

"I was quite disappointed, you know," Charles continues. "I've always loved Oliver Twist and musicals, so I really wished I had gone." He buys chilled white wine and dark chocolate truffles. "But that's quite all right," he adds, offering him a glass, which he takes. "Now that it's playing here as well, I'd rather watch it with you."

He unwraps the chocolate to offer him a piece after eating one himself, and Erik tries very hard not to think of an oppressive office in Auschwitz. He'd only ever eaten it once, more out of curiosity than any real interest, and the taste was utterly tainted by the circumstances. Even the thought of Schmidt still ruins his appetite.

Charles's step falters momentarily. "Sorry." He furtively puts it away as they reach a quieter corner of the waiting area, looking inordinately distressed. "That was terribly insensitive of me."

Erik distracts himself. Charles looks a few years younger in his double-breasted black vest with brass buttons than he does in the usual jacket. Paired with black slacks, it contrasts starkly against his white dress shirt and pale skin, accentuating the red of his lips and the blue of his eyes. He is quite successful. Charles needs to stop wearing tweed, he decides. "Maybe it'll taste good in your mouth," he drawls, leaning against the wall without taking his eyes off the other.

"Please, my friend. You needn't force yourself."

"Believe me, Charles, if I had to force myself to tempt you into kissing me, I wouldn't be here."

At that, Charles laughs, and the tension in the air dissipates. "I'm not getting arrested just before the show the one time I make it to a performance, Erik."

He worries his bottom lip with his teeth in a smile that's almost coquettish, the glimmer of fascination reflected brightly in his eyes, and it's more effective than any spiel on genetics. In fact, waxing poetic on mutation rather kills the effect, and Erik can't count how many times he's wanted to tell the man to shut up and do something else with his mouth instead. Like right now.

He pulls Charles closer, his smile shark-like, predatory. "Well, you'd best do something about that then," he murmurs as he leans in.

In the same fluid motion that he glides forward and tilts his head up to meet him, the telepath slides his eyes shut and raises two fingers to press on his right temple. When the kiss begins, it feels like the first time.

_I suppose this really would be our first actual date,_ Charles notes with some amusement. _We seem to have gotten into things in somewhat reversed order._

Erik engraves the details upon his memory —the lingering scent of rosewood, the feel of soft lips on his own, the supple warmth in his arms—, and chocolate tastes sweet for a change. He still washes it down with all of the wine and accepts the offer of a second drink, but for now, he's firmly at the theatre with a Victorian gentleman trapped in a young geneticist's body, and the show is about to begin.

"Stop calling me that!" Charles protests with a punch to his arm as they make their way to their seats in the third centre row from the stage.

But of course, it's Charles Xavier, rich, philanthropic patron of the arts, buying the tickets. He actually rolls his eyes this time. "Whenever you stop acting like a wealthy old man born in the 1800s."

Charles slips an arm through his. _An old man born in the nineteenth century, my friend, would not snog his boyfriend at the theatre._ The voice in his head sounds a touch indignant.

As they sit down, Erik concedes, _I suppose he wouldn't use the term 'boyfriend.' _

* * *

><p>"Well, what did you think?" Charles asks with a grin, backing down the street towards the parking area and weaving gracefully through a group of women in brightly coloured knee-length dresses.<p>

"That you're absolutely lying about never having watched it because you were singing along to every song in the bloody show."

"I did not, nor did I lie. I just bought the sound-track album, that's all. To console myself for missing the performance proper, you understand."

"Right." The car keys fly into his hand from Charles's pocket, and he opens the doors with a wave of his hand as they approach the vehicle.

"Well?" Charles is still looking at him expectantly, practically radiating glee, as he climbs in.

"It's your type of story exactly, Charles," he replies, starting the engine.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"A kind wealthy gentleman rescues a downtrodden, impoverished child." He reverses out of the parking space and turns into the street. "What a nice..." He searches for the correct English word. "...allegory for your complex."

"My complex, Erik?" the other echoes.

"Isn't that your latest hobby? Taking oppressed children under your wing?"

"You make it sound like this is about me."

"There's at least a little bit of self-satisfaction in everything we do, Charles."

"Christ, Erik, I was asking if you enjoyed the musical!"

"My favourite part was when Nancy learned her lesson for staying with her abuser. She had it coming."

"Erik!" Charles chastises, and this time, he even looks genuinely upset.

"What? You know it's true, and Bill Sikes? That's human nature for you, right there. Under the... surface? No, veneer. Under the veneer of social structure and culture, they are a selfish and savagely cruel species."

"Bloody hell, Erik, you're missing the point!"

"Fine, enlighten me, professor."

Charles punches him in the arm again, less halfheartedly than the last time. "It's social criticism, Erik, exposing the ugly truth of the times and bringing it to the attention of people who might be able to do something about it, most of whom were often quite detached from such grim realities. There were a great many orphaned children in England in the era in which the book was written, many of whom were put to work in factories under terrible conditions or recruited into street urchin gangs to become criminals after growing up famished in the Poor Law's workhouses. It's about the value of kindness in times of great hardship. It's about the beauty of innocence and how difficult it is to leave a life of crime behind. It's about holding fast to one's good nature, about loving someone more than yourself."

Erik squeezes his eyes shut briefly as they stop at a traffic light and regrets he ever asked. _Good God, is he never going to stop? Is his doctorate in genetics or literature?_

"It's abou—"

"Starvation with which I am intimately acquainted," he interrupts hurriedly, "and pickpocketing in which case the only pockets I want to pick are yours. Now, why don't you tell me where you'd like to go for dinner, vicar?"

Charles gives him a withering look, but obligingly says, "Turn right," and Erik would never confess how much he loves the way Charles squeezed his hand when Noah insulted Oliver's late mother in Act One.


	5. Diversion

**Chapter 4: Diversion**

The room they are in is somewhat chilly despite the heating, and the wall is solid against his fist when he punches it in frustration. "Damn it! Where the fuck is he starting this nuclear war now, where is he?"

"Erik, the wall is not going to tell you," Charles says evenly from where he is sitting by the window, staring out at the Siberian landscape.

"He sent her here because he's up to something!" he almost yells, whirling to face the other. "Can she hear us?"

The telepath tilts his head and presses two fingers to his temple as he does whenever he uses his gift. Frankly, Erik thinks it's more for show than any real benefit. "No. They knocked her out. Too dangerous to keep her conscious because she could manipulate them into releasing her if I'm not blocking her constantly."

"And you couldn't pluck any locations from her brain?"

"He didn't tell her. The submarine moves all the time too."

"Damn it!" He punches the wall again.

Charles catches his hand by the wrist when he pulls back, and Erik notices the tension in that slighter frame for the first time, betraying the agitation his companion is hiding. Somehow, knowing that Charles is anxious as well has a calming effect, and he lets soft lips soothe the bruises that are forming on his knuckles. Suddenly, the approaching clatter of heels on concrete resounds throughout the corridor. Charles hurriedly drops his hand and turns. When Moira MacTaggert rounds the corner, her distress is palpable.

"We have a location on Shaw."

"What? Where?" He's halfway to her in a heartbeat, and she stops dead in her tracks.

"No, I should say we had one." She's staring right at Charles, and Erik turns to see the colour drain from the younger man's face. "He attacked Division X while we were here."

He swears vehemently enough to make Charles wince and hits the wall again, in part because there's not a more appropriate response, but mostly because he hasn't heard the bad news. He can see it in Charles's eyes.

"Two missing," she continues, stepping forward to take Charles lightly by the shoulders as if to ground him. "Charles, I asked. It's not Raven."

The relief that floods his expression is as great as the guilt in his eyes as soon as it passes. "Thank you, Moira," he says, taking her hands in his own, and Erik feels something ugly twist in his gut. "Who?"

"Armando and Angel. They say Angel left with Shaw." She hesitates, but the way Charles falls to pieces standing tells him everything he needs to know, and he instinctively moves closer to rest his fingers on the small of Charles's back. "Armando, he... There's no trace of him left. They couldn't say exactly how, but it's described like he was vaporised."

Erik is well aware of exactly how, but doesn't verbalize his thoughts. Charles looks distraught enough without the gory details.

"Charles?" Moira is the picture of concern, her soft brown eyes searching the other man's face.

Charles seems to snap out of it. "I'm fine," he says reassuringly, giving her a hug, and Erik suddenly wants to throw the CIA agent out the windows. "Thank you, Moira. I'm fine."

She returns it warmly and deftly changes the subject as soon as they part. "The earliest flight back is in the morning. We should get some rest. There's a room upstairs you can use. Your belongings have already been taken there. I'll show you where."

Charles smiles a little and nods, and they follow her up the stairs. The corridor looks just like the one they just left, only lined with grey doors instead of windows. She opens the third door on the left.

"Here." She steps aside for them to enter, but doesn't walk away. "We'll keep Frost under, so get some sleep, Charles," she adds, offering a reassuring smile. "You too, Erik." The last seems more of an afterthought.

He inclines his head in agreement, gripping Charles by the shoulders.

"If you need me, I'll be down the hall, sixth door on the right."

"Thank you, Moira," Charles says gratefully. "Sleep well."

"You too," she says, lingering.

Charles closes the door. He doesn't move, waiting. In the distance, a door clicks shut. He's ready when Charles steps back into his arms, resting his head on his shoulders and gasping for breath.

"It's not your fault," he whispers, holding him close. "There was no way any of us could have known."

"You're thinking the same thing I am."

"That changes nothing."

"We should have brought them along."

"There was a reason we didn't."

"One of us could have stayed."

"No, Charles, we couldn't. You know we couldn't."

"Erik." Pallid hands grip his leather jacket tightly in the darkened room. "Erik, we could have done _something_," he insists desperately. "We could have. _I_ could have. There must have been..."

"Charles," he says firmly, taking shaking hands in his own. "We couldn't. Have. Known. Stop blaming yourself."

He leads him backwards into the room. It's small; there are two bunk beds folded up against the wall to the right, a wooden cupboard against the left wall and a wooden desk beside it with a large white candle on it. Their bags were deposited on the floor in front of another, smaller door, probably the bathroom. There is a single window in the back wall, but no light switch. He pulls the lower bunk down and locks it in place with his gift as he tugs Charles over to sit down. The slighter man leans against him, boneless, and he wraps his arms around him tightly, protectively, cherishing that Charles will pretend for Moira, but let him see this. It is a long time before Charles speaks again.

"You know, I was so happy to hear it wasn't Raven." He scoffs, self-deprecating. "As if it's better that it's any of the others. As if it's better that Ar—"

Erik shuts his mouth with his own. _Stop, Charles, stop. She's your sister. You grew up with her. It's only natural that you feel she's more important. No one would hold it against you. Why do you do this to yourself? _

_That's not an excuse, my friend. Stop making excuses for me. _

He presses him into the thin mattress, supine. _I don't have to_.

"Erik," Charles whispers as he pulls away.

"Get some sleep," he commands firmly, pulling the upper bunk into place and hoisting himself up.

The hand that grabs his leg is stronger than he expected, and he doesn't quite manage the climb. Fingers deftly undo a buckle and a button, then warm breath ghosts over his skin through two layers of fabric (fast becoming just one) as the zipper is undone.

"Charles, you are in no state t—"

_Distract me_, the telepath interrupts, his mouth leaving him hot and wanting, the thought accompanied by images, images of Charles blindfolded with his tie, of familiar chains winding around him, into him, of wires lashing at porcelain skin, of metal rods wrapping around his throat the way they had wound around that woman's earlier.

Erik swallows thickly. He has never been very good at resisting Charles, and he doubts telepathy is the only reason. "I won't let you use me to punish yourself," he says anyway, tightening his grip on the edge of the bunk.

Charles rises to his knees on the mattress, so he can reach Erik's wrist. "That's not what this is about," he insists.

"Then rest, Charles." He prises himself free and pecks him lightly on the forehead.

Charles sighs, getting to his feet. "I can't sleep just yet. Good night, Erik. I'll be back. I'm going to talk to Moira."

His hand snakes out to grab Charles by the shoulder and slam him back down into the mattress before his mind even registers what he's doing, but when it does, he's just angry. "No."

"Erik?" Charles's voice is tentative, but calm. "Look, if you're tired, go ahead and sleep first. I need to take my mind off things, and we need to figure out the current situation and what we can do without Division X. Since I can't sleep anyway, I'll discuss our options with her."

"No," he repeats, voice tight. "You're doing this on purpose."

Blue eyes blink up at him. "Talking to Moira?" He sits up slightly, looking a little annoyed by the accusation. "Well, yes, I can't have an accidental conversation, can I?"

"Why do you want me to hurt you?"

Another blink, slower this time, and Charles seems to suddenly comprehend his meaning. "That's not it. Seeing today just reminded me of something I'd fantasised about for a long time."

The images flash in his mind again, and Erik realizes why the chains looked familiar. The anchors from the night they met. "That's what you thought of? That's why y—"

"Of course not." Charles's fingers languidly trace patterns on his neck, shoulders and chest through his turtleneck, but his words are hurried, flustered, and he's looking at some spot on the floor. "I felt your consciousness before I ever saw you or what you were capable of. You were important to me, somehow, from the moment our minds touched. There was something special, and no, I don't just mean your mutation, Erik. I knew at once that I couldn't just let you go. But yes, I couldn't help thinking about that. Do you think ill of me, my friend?" The fingers stop, curling in the fabric.

It's that nervousness (and the thought of Charles going to _her_) that makes him fold the bunk back against the wall and reach around the other to slide his thumb diagonally down the back of Charles's neck. Charles lifts his head in the exact opposite direction of the gesture. "Of course not," he murmurs as he claims dry lips hungrily.

Charles makes a filthy noise into the kiss as his hands slide under cloth to touch bare skin, and the twist of his fingers is delicious. Behind him, a mattress falls as metal detaches itself from the wall, and Erik makes short work of his clothes. He arches and moans as the bars stretch and curl around him, holding him down and sliding against his skin. The air is chilly, but Erik's hands are leaving liquid fire in their wake as they sweep brusquely over his body. In what little moonlight there is, his eyes are shining still, and Erik doesn't want to cover them.

"Just for a little while," Charles whispers, breathless. "My bag," is where the tie is. "I know, when you want to see, I'll want to see too." He walks over to retrieve the tie and finds it coiled around a bottle of lubricant. Charles never planned on wasting their alone time, impending nuclear war or no. "It's been some time since we've had the chance," he reasons with a soft chuckle, "and we might have had cause to celebrate..."

Erik turns him over gently as he trails off and ties the silk around his eyes as a slim metal rod presses into him. It's oiled, almost painless, and it finds its target with ruthless efficiency. His hips jerk, and he gasps Erik's name desperately, struggling against the bonds for more friction. A short distance away, he hears the sound of a match being struck even as the rod inside grows and fills him, stretching him slowly while rubbing against that spot that makes it hard to even think. _'tI'malmost_— It stops moving, but continues expanding slowly even as he feels Erik return to his side.

"I won't hit you," he tells him quietly.

Charles nods.

"Frankly, I'm too angry."

"About my wanting to talk to Moira?" He can hear the incredulity in his voice. "It's just discussing business, Erik. Why would you..."

"It's the way she looks at you, Charles. She likes you."

As Erik speaks, hot liquid drips onto his back and sticks, eliciting a sharp gasp.

"Does it hurt?"

"N—No, just a bit of a sting. I was surprised, that's all. But, Erik, it's just business, and I don't... you know I don't—"

"Don't you? From what I heard, you tried to pick her up the first time you met her, groovy mutations, gene names and all, and it's quite obvious she wants something more personal."

The flashes of heat quickly chilled by the cold air start to feel curiously arousing as he's rolled onto his back, the hot wax now dribbling onto his chest. "She's not you," he settles for saying simply.

"I can't bear it," Erik answers, and his fingertips trail up the back of his thigh as the wax coats a nipple.

Charles whimpers, writhing helplessly. The bonds are probably leaving bruises. "There's no one like you," he gasps as metal coils around his neck and tightens into a choke hold. "Erik, Erik..." He can still breathe, just barely.

Erik is pouring the wax down his torso, and he tenses in anticipation, back arching. "Don't talk to her, Charles."

It's so close. "Th—That's crazy," he manages, but he's not sure if it's intelligible.

"Only what you've made me."

_OhGod, ErikErik, OH_. He's lapping up precum with his tongue, but the wet slide up the underside and the hot suction of his lips only makes more leak, and Charles shivers as the coil around his throat tightens into a squeeze that cuts off his almost-moan.

_Don't look at her. _

The wax drips on his left knee next, trailing up his inner thigh as Erik takes more of him into his mouth. It's hot and wet and the roughness of his tongue and the softness of his lips, and good God, he can't breathe, but the metal bars hold him still as Erik takes him deeper, sucks harder, and _fuckErikChristOH. _

_Don't even think about her. _

His fingers curl into the mattress, and he squeezes his eyes shut beneath the blindfold as everything seems to slow. He needs air desperately, and in the haze of panic and pleasure, his control utterly breaks, his mind latching automatically onto the closest other. Erik groans deeply as the sensations bleed over, and the vibrations of his throat make the pressure inside unbearable.

_I want to do this to you until it's seared into your soul that you're mine and mine alone. _It's almost too much when the metal inside begins to slide out of him with excruciating slowness. _I want to fuck you until your insides are raw, and you can feel me inside you forever_. The thought sounds possessive and utterly wrecked all at once, and he hears an undertone that doesn't form coherent words, but brims with meaning, _desire_ that Erik can't make himself articulate, not even in thought. _Beg me, Charles_, he doesn't say because he wants to, but _you shouldn't, you shouldn't. I want to hear you say it, but you shouldn't. God, Charles, can you? Would you? _

He arches into Erik's mouth, straining against the bonds. The coils around his neck loosen for an instant, and he manages a single gulp of air to gasp, "Yes, my God, _yes_. Erik, please. _Please_."

The way Erik groans is like he's torn into his soul, and Charles would gladly sell his right now to hear it over and over again. _There's no one but you, Charles_ as the metal strikes home, and he screams.

He's not sure how much time passes, but the next thing he notices is cold water on his face, and he grimaces at the small towel cleaning him. Erik walks away, there's the sound of running water, and then he's back, and the towel is warm this time. The metal bars are gone, and now that he can move freely, he realizes his forearms and calves are sore. Erik's touch is so very gentle as he lifts the wax from his skin and presses the cool cloth to his bruises, and his expression is uncharacteristically tender in the candlelight. Charles can't help smiling. It's times like these when he doesn't need his gift to be sure, when Erik doesn't have to think or say a word for him to _know_, and nothing else matters.

"How long have I been out?"

"Fifteen minutes, maybe."

Erik tosses the towel aside carelessly, the last of the hardened wax with it. He doesn't remember Erik undressing, but the warmth of tanned skin is a comfort all its own, the shape of the scars beneath his fingertips clear and real. Erik is cradling him like something precious, kissing every mark he left earlier. It's just the barest brush of his lips, so as not to chafe the skin further, soothing like the fingers in his hair.

"If this is what you're like in a jealous rage, I should find ways to make you jealous more often," he teases.

"Don't even think about it," Erik murmurs fiercely against the marks on his neck.

He laughs. "Oh, all right, I'll keep you with me whenever I talk to anyone else. Are you happy now?"

The other grunts his approval, massaging the areas around the bruises gently. In the warm glow, he slips his hands into dark hair and brings Erik up for another kiss, burying himself in everything that is Erik, his Erik.

_You didn't...?_

_ It wouldn't be the same. _

_Then let me. _

_Yes, Charles, yes. _

Sometimes it's hard, when it's over, to remember where one starts and the other ends, as if every time they part, they take a piece of the other with them and leave a piece of themselves behind. The candle goes out.

* * *

><p>Erik is used to dreaming of the past. It always starts the same way. He's in an office in Auschwitz, there's a coin on the table, and Herr Doktor is counting to three. It always ends the same way too.<p>

"Alles ist gut," Mama is saying reassuringly, again and again: everything is fine.

He doesn't know why he keeps trying. He knows it's only a dream, and the coin will never move even if he can now make anchors dance in the night sky.

That hated voice says, "Zwei," and he tries anyway. _Move, dammit, movemovemove!_

"Please, Erik."

This is new. It makes him turn in surprise, the coin forgotten. Charles is standing where his mother was, dressed in a familiar light blue sweater and dark gray slacks, smiling warmly like he doesn't notice the guards' hands holding him in place or the Luger aimed at his heart.

"Charles?" he calls softly, fear and disbelief gripping him as he reaches for the other, staggering forward. "What are you doing here?" Maybe this isn't a dream. "If this is your idea of a joke..."

The deafening gunshot cuts him off, and Charles crumples into his waiting arms.

"Charles, stop this. Let me wake up. I don't want to see this. Not to you." It sounds like he's begging. He _is_ begging. His hands come away gritty. Charles is dissolving into sand, slipping through his fingers. "No. No, Charles, no."

"Please, Erik," he says again, weakly this time, his incredibly blue eyes shining. "Together?"

"We always will be," he promises, even if it could be a lie, even if it could never be.

Crimson lips form an elated smile as they turn to sand with his heart, and he feels the metal of the pistol pointing to his head. He doesn't get a chance to turn.

* * *

><p>Erik gasps, sitting up abruptly. It's too dark. He can't see. <em>Charles. Charles, where are you?<em>

Fingers lace with his own. "Erik, are you all right?"

The telepath is lying beside him on the damp, cramped bunk, a fact he should have noticed earlier given their intertwined legs. They're still in the USSR. Charles is still alive. Emma Frost is somewhere in the facility, hopefully drugged out of her mind. Schmidt is nowhere in the vicinity.

"I'm fine," he exhales, calming himself. "Just a nightmare."

Charles sits up as well and winds warm arms around him from behind. "Shh..." he whispers soothingly, and Erik can feel him inside.

_Charles, no, _but it's too late; Charles has already seen.

_I'm here, Erik_. A gentle kiss is pressed between his shoulder blades as he is pulled back down to sleep. _I'm here._ Charles's mouth, mind, and body cover his own, and it's like drowning, drowning in Charles; it is at once the most disquieting and most comforting feeling in all the world, just like the first time, and he can't breathe. _I'll always be here,_ he promises as he pushes him over, and Erik has time for one last thought as he falls into the white light.

_You don't know that. _


	6. Secret Garden

**Chapter 5: Secret Garden**

They have just assigned everyone a room after Raven's guided tour, but the sombre mood hasn't lifted. Raven is occupying herself by playing hostess, while Sean has found diversion in mooning over Moira, who is keeping abreast of the President's meeting with the Soviet Minister of Foreign Affairs. It's Alex who worries Charles the most, being especially hard hit by the events of the last few days. He quickly retreated to his room after the tour, and he hasn't even been teasing Hank, who has set up a lab in the basement and is working furiously on new equipment to distract himself. They need to train, of course; that is why they are here, but Charles can't help feeling like they need a break more. They can start training tomorrow. He doesn't necessarily know if he agrees with Erik's assessment, that watching a friend die makes them less children than they were only several days back, but one thing they certainly have more of now is determination, and maybe that's the difference they need.

"Alex?" he calls, knocking on the door.

There is a pause, in which he hears the youth contemplate pretending to be asleep before remembering who is at the door. "Professor, come in."

He opens it, enters and shuts it behind him. Alex is lying in bed, staring vacantly out the window, both knees bent but one upright. "Raven is getting dinner. She wants to know what you would like," he opens casually. Well, to be precise, she is thinking of ordering dinner and wouldn't start asking around for at least another half an hour, but it is as good an excuse as any, and the information is just as useful now as it would be in thirty minutes.

The blond shrugs, sitting up to rest his arm on the upright knee. "Anything that isn't boiled vegetables is fine." By that, he really means that he isn't hungry and doesn't care, but knows better than to starve himself.

"I'll let her know." The silence that follows is long and heavy. Alex is taciturn to begin with, and when he isn't, he's incendiary. Neither is particularly conducive to conversation even if they do belie a heart of gold. At length, Charles settles for sitting behind him on the bed and looking out the same window with their backs touching. A flock of black birds fly by, and a breeze picks up as he cycles through the possibilities in his mind, but finally, he opts for simplicity. Reaching back to pat the other's left hand on the bed, he says, "It's not your fault."

For the longest time, they remain as they are, then Alex leans back a little more, tilting his head back to rest on the nape of Charles's neck. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and as the afternoon sun begins to wane, the telepath hears him think that the most comforting part about talking to Charles is that you never had to talk at all.

* * *

><p>He finds Erik waiting outside when he exits, his visit having served its purpose, and telepathically tells Raven to get extra orders of wings, pasta and salad from the pizzeria she is heading to with Moira. Wordlessly, he leads the other man to the kitchen, grabs the bottle of German Riesling from the refrigerator and lets Erik talk him out of taking the wine glasses with them to the garden once he has the bottle uncorked. The sun is starting to set when they walk out onto the stone path that winds through the garden, and as he passes the bottle to Erik, it sinks in that they haven't spoken all day, but even as the thought forms, Erik speaks.<p>

"I always knew you were wealthy, Charles, but this is beyond what I imagined. What's it like growing up in a house you can get lost in?"

He smiles thinly, looking away and wishing they'd never had to come here. "Lonely," he answers truthfully. It is also convenient when you're running away to hide, but he doesn't say that. He still doesn't like this house (too many things that he'd rather forget lurking in every corner), but it's more pleasant now than he remembered, brighter. It must be the people. "It was better once Raven arrived," he adds fondly, remembering.

The other hands the bottle back to him after taking a gulp. "I suppose the... maze-like hallways will come in useful if we're ever attacked here."

He makes a quiet sound of amusement to mask his first hand experience of just how useful. "Mm, I'll leave the security details to you, darling. But h— are you comfortable?" He means to ask if Erik minds, if it feels acerbic and agoraphobic sleeping in a room larger than the house he grew up in, but doesn't know to phrase it in a way that isn't awkward, leading and insensitive. "I mean, is there anything I can do?" he tries again helplessly.

"I'll get used to it, I expect," Erik says, wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him close as they descend weathered stone steps. "And you're doing it."

The answer brings a giddy smile to his face as he rests his head on a warm shoulder because Erik is talking about staying, about getting used to living in _his_ house, about more than just one week. It seems silly to be so happy about every little deed and detail, but he is, and he wants this to last forever, wants to run around the garden with a sparkler in hand like a little boy all over again from the sheer glee. Dear God, he thinks, he's _in love_. Hopelessly.

"How's the kid?" Erik asks as he takes a sip of the wine.

"I told him it's not his fault," he replies, passing the bottle.

"Hmph. Funny how hard it was to convince you of the same."

Charles glares at him, but wisely says nothing. In the mansion, he picks up on Hank asking Sean where he is and quickly gets an idea. Whatever technological advancement Hank has invented can wait a few hours. He turns to take Erik's free hand in his own and steps back, a playful smile on his lips. _Come_, he says into his mind, tugging Erik with him as he walks backwards. _Hurry_. He breaks into a run.

Erik follows him through the garden, ducking between trees, flowerbeds and bushes, into a small glade hidden in a circle of dense bushes and shaded by oaks and willows. "Is this really necessary, Charles?"

"No!" he replies with a laugh, leading him to the centre in a haphazard dance, where a roughly circular bit isn't shaded by tree boughs and the sky can clearly be seen. "This was my secret hiding place as a child," he explains, twirling into a crouch to pluck one of the few wild flowers growing in the circle. They are new, probably took root while he was away at Oxford.

Erik chuckles, pushing him backwards lightly by the shoulders and straddling his hips on the grass. "And you thought it'd be nice to defile it?" He sets the wine bottle down between the roots of a tree.

Charles sighs with pleasure, chafing a tanned cheek with blue petals. "I thought I'd complete the garden tour," he corrects, tilting his head as the other leans in. "It's a nice spot, isn't it? And it's not like I need to hide from you."

They kiss, ending up side by side on the dewy grass, legs intertwined with his head on Erik's chest. He's tracing patterns over planes of muscle with the flower in his hand when the question comes. "Whom did you hide from?" He must have tensed because the other immediately turns to him, concerned. "Charles?"

It's too late to mention playing hide and seek with Raven, so he smiles wanly. "Nothing worth telling, really."

"Tell me."

"It was a long time ago."

"Tell me anyway."

He sits up, sensing Raven and Moira approaching the mansion. "Dinner's here. We should eat before it gets cold."

Erik catches his arm and pulls him back down. "You'll have to try harder than that."

He laughs and writhes in the strong arms encircling him. "Erik, come o—"

"How is this fair, Charles?" the other whispers thickly into his hair, and he stills. "You can pluck whatever you want from my mind, but you can't even tell me one thing."

"Erik, I..."

Erik stands abruptly. "Dinner, you said."

Reflexively, Charles reaches out to stop him before he can step away, his hand closing over the 214782 that will never fully fade. "My stepfather," he says hurriedly. "I was hiding from my stepfather. And his son, Cain."

"That's what you didn't want to say?" Erik crouches before him and lifts his chin so their eyes meet. "Why?"

He sighs. "They abused my mother and me," he answers plainly. It's almost easy now, after so many years, to say it as it is. "To be precise, Kurt abused my mother and Cain. Cain took it out on me with bullying."

"I'll kill them." The rage and hatred that flares doesn't surprise him. "I'll find them and kill them, Charles."

He smiles thinly, looking away. "I'm afraid you're many years too late, my friend. Kurt's been dead for a long time, and Cain fell off the radar soon after."

Erik grips his shoulder. "I'll track him down, I swear, and when I'm done, he'll wish I'd just killed him."

"No. He was no less a victim than I was, really." _Don't_, he pleads silently. _Just stay with me._

Erik takes a deep breath to calm himself before trying to understand _how_. "Didn't your mother..?"

He scoffs. "She died of alcohol poisoning. Most of the time, it was me helping her and not the reverse." He pauses, his expression changing to one of rueful acceptance. "In retrospect, I suppose it must have been harder for her."

Erik nestles between the roots of the nearest tree and pulls him into his lap protectively. "Then Raven too?"

This time, his smile is a little mischievous. "No, they barely noticed her."

"If you protected her, why didn't you protect yourself?"

He sighs again. "At the time, I suppose I believed I deserved it." Before Erik can speak, he adds, "I know it makes no sense. Looking back now, I don't know why I thought so, but at the time..."

Erik says nothing as the other leans back in his arms. It's a line of reasoning that is so very _Charles_ — self-blaming, martyr-like, eager to please and egocentric. It hasn't changed. _Dinner?_ he asks, changing the subject.

"Whenever you want. It's already cold, so it no longer makes any difference."

He reaches for the neglected wine bottle, and they finish it off before he shifts and lies back down, tugging Charles with him and resting his head on one hand. The circle of trees frames the white moon in the dark sky. The night air is cool, there's a bit of a breeze, and it's peaceful. They won't have much time alone together soon, so it's something to be savoured.

Charles lies atop him, cheek over his heart, and hums a song from the musical they watched together, hands slipping beneath the black turtleneck to caress bare skin. He remembers Erik's reluctance to undress completely the first time because knowing isn't the same as seeing, remembers how real they always felt, how Erik shivers a little whenever he traces them just like he's doing now. He loves these scars, not for what they are, but for how they have shaped this man, the resilience they carved into his spirit. It's easier not to think about them, though. Having seen every gruesome experiment through Erik's eyes, he can't blame Erik for hating the psychopath who put them there. Yet, revenge isn't the answer, and he knows it won't be the end. When he's completely honest with himself, he's afraid of what will happen when Erik succeeds, when Erik inevitably concludes he's not enough. He won't be; he knows that. Erik will always strive for something more, something greater; he used those words that first night at Division X for a reason. And maybe he should be more afraid than he is. Erik isn't bothered by the prospect of nuclear war; he just wants Shaw dead. And he knows, he knows, but even so...

Erik's free hand slides into his hair, and he notes that the other is thinking about him with curiosity.

"What do you want to know?" he asks. Even so, he wants this; he can't stop.

"Everything."

He's careful not to tense. _This is it_, he realizes with dread. "You'll say my life is a bed of roses compared to yours," he tells him instead, masking his trepidation with a laugh.

In truth, he never wants Erik to see just how different they are, to put the other's suffering in perspective with his luxury, as if the mansion isn't enough of a reminder, as if it really matters all that much. But it does, he knows it does. Every little detail matters when it comes to Erik; it's in the calculated measure of his gaze, the elaborate cogs in his head, and it's worse when the importance isn't immediately obvious because Erik will think of _something_ later, much later, and one day... One day, they will disagree on something vital, and Erik will go. Erik will go because they are too different, because he doesn't believe in change, either in himself or other people.

"Maybe I need to see something happy for a change," comes the response, and he smiles sadly.

"I can show you," he offers, temporarily shutting his negative thoughts away as he caresses Erik's mind with his own. It's too perfect, he thinks, and that's why it can't last.

_Charles._ The thought is laced with longing, and he can't refuse, so he leans up to kiss Erik again. _Charles,_ He sighs against the other's lips and lets himself fall, drawing Erik deeper into himself, melding them together more than he's ever done before, more than he ever will again. He shivers as the connection is completed, and everything is just Erik, his Erik, and yet himself at once; it's too perfect, he thinks, and no, oh God, no. _Please_. They can't make him break away again.


	7. Point Blank

**Chapter 6: Point Blank**

It's a time of milestones, Charles thinks, a step forward on the feminist front, a university integrated by military force, two people in space for the first time in history, the closing of My Fair Lady after nigh on three thousand performances, and Erik asking to be shot in the head. At point blank range. _Point blank, Erik? You really think I can shoot a friend, shoot YOU, point blank?_ The gun is heavy in his hand as Erik presses the barrel to his forehead, practically aglow with fatalistic excitement. Oh, he believes that Erik can stop it, certainly, but that's hardly the point, and he can't do it. Nothing's changed since that night, and he can't do it. He hands the gun back to Erik and walks away, shaking his head and suggesting something a little more challenging (not involving guns). Erik trails after him through the garden, demanding to know exactly what the problem is, and finally, he tires of what borders on pestering.

"Fine," he says, whirling around. "Fine. If you're so adamant about stopping bullets, then why don't you shoot me instead? Same exercise, and you even get to control your own timing."

"What?" Erik stops dead in his tracks. "Charles, you can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm very serious, Erik. Go on." He faces his friend properly and can't help the grin that curves his lips at the sudden hesitation he sees, can't help feeling the least bit vindictive and wanting to give Erik a taste of his own medicine. "Whatever happened to 'You know I can deflect it!'?" he teases to diffuse the sudden tension.

"Charles, that's..."

"I have complete and utter faith in you. You need a situation? Here you have one. Now, are you up for it or not?" He crosses his arms and taps one foot in a show of impatience.

Eventually, Erik levels the gun at him, and he can almost smell the trepidation. "No, I can't," Erik breathes, lowering it, an echo of his own refusal several minutes ago. "Charles, I can't. What if..."

"Ah, ah, you're not getting out of this so easily, my friend." He lifts Erik's hand and presses the pistol to his own forehead, almost exactly mirroring the other's earlier actions. "Fair is fair. You were going to make _me_ shoot _you_. And don't you dare say it would have been all right that way had you failed."

"Charles, please."

"Do it, Erik. You can. I trust you."

Erik hesitates to pull the hammer back, but at length, he does, thumb quivering slightly as it moves. Charles lets his hand fall to his side, but his gaze is unwavering as their eyes lock, and he nods almost imperceptibly as a trembling finger curls on the trigger. It fires, and he gasps.

At the last second, Erik took a step back before firing and deflected the bullet's trajectory an instant before stopping it dead barely a quarter of an inch out of the barrel. There was never any doubt that he could have, but Erik clearly wasn't taking any chances. As the bullet falls crumpled to the stone path, Charles wants to say something witty about the precaution, wants to say it should teach Erik never to make that request again, but his mouth is dry, and all he can think of is the way the shot has sent all the blood in his body straight down. There's something about the gun still pointing at him, something magnetic, and the sound of the safety clicking excites him. He swallows thickly, even though he knows it's clicking on.

"Good God, Charles, don't you ev—"

He catches Erik's hand as it falls and brings the pistol back up to blow gently on it, never looking away from eyes now wide with surprise. He watches Erik, senses the curiosity as he continues slowly, making sure his breath ghosts over the entire barrel to cool it before extending his tongue tentatively to touch the underside, but it is snatched away before he can take it into his mouth, and he is pulled into a deep kiss. Instead, warm metal presses into the crack of his arse through his slacks, and he moans into Erik's mouth as he arches closer, burying one hand in dark hair and slipping the other under fabric to rub tense muscles with his fingers as his companion moves the gun up. His breath quickens as it slips under his waistband, and he has to break the kiss for air, but he presses his forehead to Erik's cheek and inhales deeply of slightly spicy aftershave.

"And you accused me of an ulterior motive," Erik chides, amused.

"In my defence," he murmurs, nuzzling a broad shoulder and caressing the turn of slim hips. "I've never had a gun to my head before, so you are no more surprised than I am, my friend."

"It's still a naughty request to make."

The reply comes with a hard smack across the bottom and _OH_. He tightens his hold on the taller man as he protests, "What? You started it."

Erik is backing slowly across the garden, tugging him along. "I didn't make you go through with it."

Another spank, and he bites back a whimper. "H—How is it my fault that you caved in?"

They come to a stop beside a stone bench, and he's so hard it hurts. "You were very persuasive, Charles."

The barrel inches down his spine, chafing the ridges lightly, as Erik continues to spank him, and _OhGodyes_ he can barely think. "I—I didn't... Ah!" Rough fingers pinch reddened flesh as his trousers slide down his legs. Well, at least, he thinks he didn't. It's difficult to be certain of anything when Erik is distracting him like this.

Erik's low chuckle resonates through his body, and he's leaning heavily on the other because his knees feel like jelly. "I know," Erik whispers tenderly, a hand burying itself in his hair to rub his scalp. "But you're still a bad boy, Charles." The words don't have to be punctuated with a spank on bare skin to make him shiver with desire, and the sound that rises in his throat is almost a whine. Erik sits down, pulling him into his lap and tilting his chin so their eyes meet. He can see his own face through Erik, all flushed skin, red lips and lust-darkened eyes, and he wonders if he always looks so debauched when they're together. "You should make it up to me."

A thumb traces his bottom lip, and a fingertip ghosts across his entrance enticingly, and he almost forgets to respond amid the thoughts of having them both inside him. "Oh. How?"

Suddenly, the gun is pressed to his temple, and the jolt that sends through him makes the breath catch in his throat. "Fuck me, Charles," Erik orders hoarsely as he pulls the hammer back, and it undoes him completely.

He doesn't hesitate, tugging articles of clothing off as he presses his lover down to the bench and nips his way down glistening skin, leaving light teeth marks in his wake. Normally, he would incredulously ask, "Right here?" but presently, he doesn't think he'd stop if everyone in the mansion walked out to catch them at this. Erik shifts, so his knees are on the grassy ground with his chest to coarse stone, and moans deeply as Charles presses his tongue into him. Erik squirms, the rough surface chafing pert nipples as he does.

"Charles." The way he says it would probably make anyone blush, but presently, it's the hottest thing Charles has ever heard, and he doesn't manage more than a moan in response. _Inside_, Erik insists. _NOW_.

Charles shifts, coats himself in more saliva and presses in slowly. _Faster, Charles. Harder,_ Erik urges, Tanned knuckles are white from gripping unfinished stone tightly, and he pries Erik's fingers off the bench to interlace with his own as he complies, thrusting brusquely into the spot he remembers. He trails kisses down a muscular back, muffling his cries as he reaches around to stroke Erik, and the additional layer of shared sensation is too much. Erik comes as well, almost as soon as he does, and they shudder as he milks the last few drops from the other and licks his stained fingers. It's a little bitter on his tongue, but as they lie there panting in the glow of the late morning sunlight with his head resting on a broad shoulder blade, life seems impossibly sweet.

"EeeeeeeyARGH!"

The sudden scream from above makes him glance up just in time to see Sean hurtling into the trees, and a cursory check shocks him. _Oh Christ_. He gasps.

"Charles? What was-"

"It seems," he answers, troubled, as he pulls out and fixes his attire nervously. "...that Sean caught sight of something very distracting that caused him to miss his timing on flight practice, and I— I think I wiped his memory of it."

Erik seems disquieted by the revelation as he dresses and dusts himself off unsteadily. "That's not something y—"

"I know," Charles interrupts hurriedly. "I didn't intend to, I swear. I didn't even realize I did it until I checked."

"You can do that by accident?"

He frowns. "I didn't think so, but I don't have a better explanation for the sudden absence of that memory." He runs a hand through his hair. "Well, nevertheless, come along now. I'm going to need your help getting him out from the tangle of tree branches he's caught in." Privately, he thinks it will be much harder to look Sean in the eye.

"I'm afraid tree branches aren't made of metal, Charles, but I'll do what I can."

He senses that Erik is still bothered by what happened, but strong arms wrap around him as the gun floats into Erik's pocket from some distance away, and it comforts him just a little. He needs to be more careful, but in the meantime, something glinting in the distance catches his eye.

* * *

><p>Charles is reclining in bed, brows furrowed in concentration as he scribbles notes in the margin of the paper he is reading, when the knock on the door comes. A quick check tells him it's Erik, and he wonders if the other is displeased that he spent most of the day with Moira. But he has her now. She stopped reporting to her CIA superiors several days ago, and she's already leaving out many details in the write-up she's drafting for submission when this is all over.<p>

_Come in_, he tells him because it's easier than raising his voice.

He watches in mild fascination as the lock disengages and the doorknob turns to let the door swing open silently.

"What are you reading?" Erik asks as he closes the door behind him quietly because it isn't fiction for a change.

"This? A genetics journal. Getting a doctorate is only the beginning of a long life of academic work, my friend." He smiles and sets the publication down on the bedside table as Erik crawls into bed beside him. "What about you? What brings you here tonight?" he asks, turning to face his lover.

"What you did earlier... Can you do it again?"

Charles blinks in surprise. Erik is usually less keen on telepathic examination.

"I want to remember," he explains, sounding frustrated. "There should be more of that, more of her, but I can't recall anything, no matter how hard I think. I never realised before, but they shouldn't be gone."

"Ah," Charles says, understanding. It must be vexing, remembering so little of someone so important, even if for a long time, the memories had hurt too much to remember. "Of course. I'll do everything in my power. You need only wish it." He draws Erik close beneath the covers, so the other's head is resting on his chest. "Whenever you're ready."

He lets their minds touch, lightly at first, so Erik can adjust, because this is different, more invasive. Uncovering repressed memories is more than just sharing, and he's moved that Erik asked, that Erik trusts him despite the doubts that are making him hesitate. Charles has never had any problems with suggesting things to Moira or manipulating the CIA officers, after all.

"You're right. I've been less responsible than I should have been," he admits ruefully, lacing their fingers together. "But I would never intentionally alter someone's memories, Erik."

The other shifts to look him in the eye, reaching up to trace his bottom lip with a callused thumb. He nips at it lightly, and when their lips touch, slowly, briefly, it leaves him breathless. He can't define what's different.

"I suppose you've had every opportunity if you so desired," Erik concedes, and his voice is strangely gruff.

"Not you, my love. Never you," he promises softly, less coherent than he'd like because it's hard to think for some reason.

"I know, Charles."

The surge of emotion that rushes him from across their mental bond elicits a sharp gasp, and he can't speak.

"I'm ready."

He crushes Erik to him protectively, possessively. _Thank you. I know how much this means to you._

_No_, Erik corrects as their minds intertwine. _But you will._


	8. Singularity

**Chapter 7: Singularity**

Charles buries his face in his pillow and tries not to think about how cold and quiet it is. He knew it was coming, had known almost since the start, but this is too soon, far too soon, and he can't stop turning the last few hours over in his head, how it all went so wrong so fast. It started with them discussing tomorrow over chess, his first wrong move of the night; maybe he shouldn't have brought it up. Somehow that led to them disagreeing over human nature, and then he tried to tell Erik that killing Shaw wouldn't bring him peace. Naturally, Erik immediately responded that peace was never an option. He had always known Erik would say that, of course, but that didn't make hearing it any less frustrating.

"It only isn't an option because you refuse to consider it," he riposted, running a hand through his hair.

"Don't patronize me, Charles."

"I'm sorry, what?"

Then Erik snapped, and everything went to hell from there.

"You don't see it, do you? It _is_ arrogance. You think you understand everything, that you know best, and you mistake your condescending compassion for recognition of your privilege. You pity people because you think you're so much better, you need to help people out of some sense of noblesse oblige, and you think you know people better than they know themselves just because you can get inside their heads. Faith and knowledge are not the same thing, Charles. You don't believe in the good in people; you see it, and you just haven't seen enough of the ugly truth, but in your arrogance, you think you've seen it all. The world won't cease to exist without you, Charles, life doesn't play by your rules, and you're not always right. God knows I love you, but you're such an egocentric brat!"

In the perfect vision of hindsight, this is where he should have let things lie.

"No, you're the one that doesn't get it!" he shouted back instead, manners failing him in his ire. "Fighting and killing isn't the solution to every problem. It only creates more hatred, more suffering and more fear. We cannot build the future by avenging the past, Erik. Hatred, fear and vengeance will only bring us right back to war again. You of all people should know that war only destroys everyone, that there are no victors."

"Don't you talk to me about war, Charles, as if you've ever seen it. Would you rather be oppressed? You'd rather pretend to be one of these creatures that will turn on you as soon as they find out what you are when you could be yourself? It must be so easy for you. Because you can, because your 'problem' isn't obvious, because you're just that privileged. All your life, you've been hiding, and now you want to help everyone else do the same!"

But he _has_ seen it, and when they are so enmeshed that their breath and pulse synchronize, he may as well have lived it because in those moments, they are one and not two, and it is precisely because he has lived those memories like they are his own that he doesn't want them to happen again. That tragedy doesn't have to repeat itself because, this time, it hasn't happened yet, they are the better men, and they can _do something_. People aren't all cut from the same cloth, and they can learn, can change.

"My God, you sound like Raven! It's not oppression I want; it's coexistence!"

"And you think that, because you do, everyone else does as well! History has shown us time and again what humans do to those who are different. Are you really naive enough to think this time won't be the same?"

They've had debates like these before. They've disagreed before. But not like this, not in _anger_.

"There can be coexistence if we change people's views, if people learn to see similarities instead of differences! We shouldn't be fighting them; we should be educating them! You think education is something to be done when all else fails? If we're the better men, then it has to start from us. Each one of us has family and friends that aren't mutants. Your mother wasn't a mutant."

"Don't talk about my mother. And you only have to look around you to see what kind of 'family and friends' they make. If coexistence were possible, we wouldn't have found Alex in prison, Hank wouldn't be trying to fix his feet, and you wouldn't have met Raven as a starving thief in your kitchen. Wake up, Charles! Your philosophies and ideals are nothing like reality! Why can't you see that we have to stand and fight? Evolution has made us superior, and when they realize they'll die out, they will fight; if we don't, they'll treat us like freaks when they win. They've done it before, and they'll do it again. Tomorrow, you will see that I'm right, that there won't be coexistence because they'll try to wipe us out as soon as they know we exist. One species is going extinct, Charles, and I'll be damned if I let that be ours!"

"War will only widen the chasm between us! You're one to talk about arrogance, Erik! All this talk about evolutionary superiority and extinction! Who made you judge and executioner? Christ, you sound like Shaw!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew it was absolutely the wrongest thing to say, and Erik was upon him in an instant, slamming him into the chair by the neck hard enough to make him choke and see stars.

"How _dare_ you," he hissed, low and dangerous and _livid_, and it's worse than the physical pain. "Don't you _ever_."

Then Erik pushed away and stormed out of the room, leaving him to recover in horrified remorse.

He was about to go apologise, when he realized that Raven was in Erik's room with him, so he went downstairs to the kitchen for a snack instead. Then Raven showed up naked, coming from _Erik's room_ naked, and he lost both his appetite and his desire to apologize. Even in spite, Raven? _Raven_? And she'd waited in his bed for him? He's not sure whom he was more furious at, but in retrospect, knowing how touchy she had been about it recently, bringing up her appearance was admittedly more vindictive than necessary. As was to be expected, Raven snapped at him too before storming off as well, and her tirade might have been a replay of Erik's only an hour prior, which only served to make him feel worse about their interlude in Erik's room. So he tossed the snack back in the refrigerator, went back upstairs to down another four glasses of scotch before ending up here in his own bed, alone for the first night in months.

And now that his anger has run its course, he's simply miserable. He tosses under the covers, turns his pillow over and tries to pull himself together. He can't afford to be like this tomorrow. He has a war to stop. But this is it, he thinks, this is why Erik will go. He is already slipping away, and Charles is powerless to stop it. Or maybe he just has it all wrong. Sleeping alone shouldn't be so hard, they shouldn't be fighting, Erik shouldn't be romancing his sister in the guest room... He lets out a grunt of frustration and flops over. It's mostly his fault, he admits. Since he had also been using Moira's attraction to him to shift her loyalties towards them, Raven wouldn't even have guessed. And he really shouldn't have compared Erik to Shaw. It was so _stupid_ and uncalled for, it made an already sensitive issue personal, and it wasn't even justified. He sighs, sitting up and rubbing at his face. A cursory check tells him that Erik is still awake. He really should go apologise, instead of ruminating here and feeling sorry for himself.

Slipping on his fuzzy blue bedroom slippers and getting to his feet, he pads quietly down to Erik's room, but when he reaches the door, all he can think about is Raven seducing Erik in the bed _they_ once made love in, and he doesn't even know why he's here anymore. Erik opens the door before he has even decided to knock (probably heard his footsteps), and instead of the apology he's been thinking about intently for the last five minutes, the first thing he says is, "What did you tell Raven?" He regrets it almost immediately.

Fortunately, instead of getting mad all over again, Erik's expression softens as he leans against the door frame. "What _you_ should have told her years ago," he answers flatly.

"Which is?"

"Are you jealous of her or of me?"

"Why would I be jealous of you?" he blurts. _Smooth, Charles_, he thinks sardonically. _This is exactly how it's done._

Erik smirks, however, and just like that, he knows he is mostly forgiven. "Because she comes to me for what you won't give her?" That doesn't shorten the list of possibilities the way he'd like it to, and Erik probably sees it in his face because the next thing he says is, "I told her she looks perfect just as she is and sent her off to her room, Charles. I would never, least of all in your house. I told you; there's no one but you. That will never change."

"I'm sorry," he says at last, slumping against the other side of the door frame in defeat. "I'm sorry about what I said earlier. I'm sorry we're having this stupid conversation. I'm sorry we're fighting the night before we go on such a critical mission." He doesn't know why he keeps talking, doesn't even know what he's saying anymore, but the words are falling from his lips in a rush. "I'm tired of being helpless, of not acting when I had the chance, so even if I know it won't change a thing, I want to see you. I want it to go back to being just like it was only yesterday between us, when everything was perfect, and it doesn't stab me in the heart to think that you have more in common with Raven than you do with me. It's completely irrational, b—"

Erik cuts him off by pulling him into a kiss, and the contact has never felt more urgent, more fleeting. _I don't need you to be rational in this, Charles. I need you to be mine._

_God, yes_. He gasps Erik's name because it's all he can do now. _Never anything but. Whether we're side by side or a million miles apart_, he promises, even though it feels like Erik's arms are both holding him close and pushing him away at once. They're drifting apart, and while he can stop it with a mere thought, he won't; he can't. That would be meaningless. Erik has to choose him freely like he did back in July, but he doesn't think he'll win this time, and he can't bear it. They're out of time.

Erik hauls him into the room and closes the door before pressing him into the wall (too gently), and it's like their first time at Division X all over again, only it's slow and deliberate and interlaced with a shaky desperation that wasn't there before. When it's over, he touches his forehead to Erik's and closes his eyes.

"I can't sleep yet, Erik. Walk with me," he whispers.

His lover nods once, and they tidy up briskly before strolling out to the garden in the cool night air hand in hand. He lets Erik lead the way because the destination isn't important, but somehow, they end up wandering towards his childhood hiding place, and Erik is wondering if he's using telepathic suggestion to lead them there.

"I am not, my friend," he tells him sadly, watching the way the grass bends and crumples beneath his sandals. "Why would I? It's not where we walk that's important."

"You're reading my mind again." Erik doesn't like it.

"I told you it's difficult not to when we're like this."

"Define like this, Charles." It stings. Like a thousand glass slivers piercing his chest.

He twists his hand out of Erik's bitterly as he answers, "When I'm thinking about you while we're in physical contact." _Maybe it's something about this house_, he thinks. _Everyone's always right here, and yet, they're so far away._ The other's hand darts out to catch his, and he looks up sharply into aquamarine eyes.

_That isn't how it was meant, Charles. Everything isn't always about you._ It's chastising and tender all at the same time and probably the closest he'll get to an apology.

Their fingers are laced together as they duck between the foliage, and suddenly, he would rather Erik let go of his hand because it hurts less when the other's predominant thoughts aren't constantly at the edge of his awareness, when he can't feel the distance growing between them because there's a part of Erik he can't reach anymore. Yet, once they are inside, he is enfolded in familiar arms, and he clasps the other man to him tightly, burying his face in Erik's shoulder, as if he can somehow close this gaping rift between them with his embrace.

_I'm sorry, Erik. I don't know what's wrong with me today. God, what are we doing?_

"Pretending that most of today didn't happen." Warm lips touch his forehead in a familiar, protective gesture. "Isn't that what you want?"

_No_, he thinks. _I want you to keep your promise. I want us to be together, always, always, always, but at least, we shouldn't go into tomorrow fighting._ Maybe after tomorrow, they can fix things, they can sort things out in a world without Shaw's nuclear war. He takes a deep breath and smiles, focusing on the present in which they are together, on the better parts of today in which Erik was saying that he loves him and always will. _It'll be all right,_ he tells himself firmly. _We'll think of something._ They sit down at the base of a tree, and he tilts his head back to peck the other on the cheek. "To be honest, I want it to be August all over again," he replies with a slight chuckle.

"You'd rather be on a road trip across the country using your gift to keep strangers from slamming the door in our faces, so we can rescue our brothers and sisters? That sounds like you."

"I'd rather be going from one city to the next alone with you without having to worry about even the little things like neighbours or teenagers overhearing us at night."

Erik responds by tightening the arms around his waist. "I don't care if the whole world overhears us, Charles."

"I'd much rather keep us, keep _you_, all to myself, thank you very much." He covers Erik's hands with his own and squeezes. "You know, I think I should like to start a school here when this is all over."

"Like a proper professor?"

"Mm, lecturing a class full of brilliant young minds like ours. A school for mutants, Erik. What do you think? You could teach them all those..." He waves one hand expansively. "...life skills I never learned."

Erik scoffs, but the fondness doesn't escape him. "We'd spend more time arguing over curricula than actually teaching, and you know that."

He laughs because it finally feels right again, because Erik is thinking about it. _God, please._ Maybe they can fix this. Maybe it doesn't have to end. "But that would be educational too. Like public debates."

For a moment, Erik looks like he's going to comment on that, but then he just snorts and buries his face in Charles's hair, nuzzling. "I think it's a great idea, Charles," he murmurs at length."You make a good teacher. These kids have made a lot of progress with your help." _As have I_, comes the silent addition.

"It helps that they're talented. And you've taught them some things too, you know."

Erik lets the conversation hang in favour of pressing his lips to the back of his neck, and he laces their fingers together tightly. Catching sight of the wine bottle they'd forgotten to take back inside where they left it at the base of the willow tree, he remembers. He remembers the blissful perfection of being completely connected to this man, that awful wretched _emptiness_ when he had to let go, and he can't. He can't. _He can't._

Nothing could have prepared him for the blinding pain that splits his skull then, and Charles screams, clutching his head in his hands. Big hands, strong and warm, (Erik, _his Erik_; it's okay) are helping him lie down, and the urgent concern in aquamarine eyes is steeped in fear. _That's not right_, he thinks. Erik shouldn't be afraid. "I don't know why I'm having this splitting migraine all of a sudden," he says, but the words sound garbled to his ears, so he doesn't know if he's making any sense. It's just a headache, though, and it's going away, so "It's okay, Erik, it's okay..." Oh. It's taking the world with it too into this gray, grey haze. "I'm sorry, my friend. I hope it doesn't rain."

There's another distorted sound (distant, just like everything else), and Erik looks so scared and worried and confused. "I'll be fine. I just... need some sleep." His hand hurts too, and Erik is moving away. "No, no, no, don't go. Don't go. Sleep here with me for a while." The gray cloud has obscured everything by then, even the pain, but he tries to say one last thing. "Wake me in the morning, won't you?" And then the grey turns into black.


	9. Perfect

**Chapter 8: Perfect**

He probably shouldn't be here, but he saw Charles leave the hospital with Alex and Sean the day before, and Erik can't forget that he cares, damn it all. Even if Charles blames him instead of Moira, who is foolish enough to use metal against him. Even if Charles doesn't want what he'd once enticed him with in front of a certain facility anymore. It's so _alien_ how silent it is in his mind with the helmet on, (and despite his efforts to busy himself and not think about it) how hollow. He tries Charles's bedroom window on the third floor first, but no one's there. Eventually, he finds Charles in a room on the ground floor facing the garden, reading on an adjustable hospital bed. Still recovering from surgery. Charles turns as soon as he lands, and he catches that expressive face contorting in anguish before the other instantly looks away.

"Erik, why are you here?" His voice is tight, controlled, unlike anything he has heard from those lips before, and all he can think of is the sand and blood on his hands that day and how much he wished he hadn't woken Charles up that morning they slept entwined in the garden. If they had gone without him, Charles wouldn't have been shot, and he wouldn't have any reason to visit and remind himself of how much he _misses_ him.

"I heard you'd been discharged. Charles, a—"

"That was you, wasn't it? Yesterday in Washington DC." Charles isn't asking so much as accusing.

"The government needs to be distracted while we regroup and cover our tracks," he explains. There is no sense in denying it, and even if everything has changed between them, he prefers not to lie to Charles.

"Much as I disapprove, I must say yesterday was quite an apt day to collapse the floors under the House." His mouth twists into a sardonic smile. "Remember, remember the fifth of November..." Blue eyes flick to his face briefly when he doesn't answer. "Oh, you didn't know? November fifth is the day the Gunpowder Plot was kept from blowing up the British House of Lords in 1605. What a coincidence."

There's something wrong with the way Charles is talking. It's cold and bitter and _wrong_ in some other undefinable way he can't put his finger on. Even when he's upset, Charles isn't like this. "Azazel said it was a good day before we went. I see why now," he replies regardless, keeping up with the conversation. "But Ch—"

"Tell me, Erik, have you ever felt what it's like to die?" It's also completely against Charles Xavier's perfect manners to repeatedly interrupt someone. And that tone, that tone... He's heard it before, somewhere, long ago.

He furrows his brows at the non sequitur, at the same time trying to remember. "Of course not. I'm still al—"

"Did you even _think_ before you drove that coin into his brain?" His voice takes on a manic edge even as Erik realizes with horror what this is about and where he'd heard that tone before. It was the first time he realized Schmidt was a madman. "Did it _never occur_ to you that I— that freezing him requires that I—"

"Charles, God, _Charles_," he breathes, rushing forward instinctively to the other's side. "Why d—"

"Don't!" He stops mostly because he's never heard Charles raise his voice that much before. "Not another step closer. Just because I can't reach your mind doesn't mean there's nothing I can do against you."

"Are you threatening me?" he asks in disbelief. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Your _being here_ hurts me, Erik!" Charles cries, wrapping his arms around himself, and Erik steps back without thinking. "What more do you want? Haven't you already taken enough?"

It pains him so much more to hear Charles saying this than it ought to, and he freezes, speechless. Even if the other has every right to, _should_ be angry. Or upset. Or hurt. He should have realized what he was doing at the time, _Mein Gott, ich konnte... I could have killed you_, but no, he was too caught up in the moment, the moment he'd been waiting for all his life. But after that, at the very least, he could have stopped those bullets instead of deflecting them. Most of all, he should have let Charles stay asleep in the garden that morning. Then he wouldn't have gotten hurt, wouldn't have spent twelve days in a hospital slowly going mad, wouldn't have told him that he was to blame (she didn't, _you did_, just like Herr Doktor said all those years ago when he screamed in the middle of a procedure once that he killed his mother; I didn't, _you did_), wouldn't have said he didn't want to be together anymore. And the last is like twisting a serrated dagger in his gut because _you promised, Charles_, and _I believed you wouldn't lie like the rest of them. Was it? Did you?_

The telepath seems to compose himself. "Please leave now if there's no other reason you came."

He backs towards the window to comply, but remembers as he's about to turn that he's forgetting something important he came to do. "Charles, I'm sor—"

"GO!"

This time, Charles hurls the book he was reading at him with all his strength, and only trained reflexes let him dodge successfully in his surprise. He glides out the window swiftly just as the door to the room bursts open to let Alex, Hank, Sean and a little African girl with shoulder-length silver hair pour into the room. She must have been the reason for the detour on the way back. Hurriedly, he floats higher and away, deciding that his old friend needs more time to calm down because Charles Xavier does many strange things, some less rational than others, but he doesn't _ever_ throw books at people.

* * *

><p>New York City is in some confusion, but a newspaper strike is hardly worth Erik's time as he reviews the information he found on an island nation he came across recently. Genosha is a stable country off the coast of Africa that has a thriving mutant population, and they've discovered a way to identify people with mutant genes. On the surface, it is a prosperous nation, but the intelligence he gathered suggests that they are enslaving every mutant they find, branding his brothers and sisters on the forehead so they can't even hide it under a sleeve. Erik will liberate them, <em>he will<em>, but even for his Brotherhood, thousands of trained adversaries are too many for their current number. They need to recruit, and once the government stops looking for them, it will be easier.

In the chaos following the collapse of the Congress floor, Mystique has gone to infiltrate the CIA and FBI in order to destroy information on them from within, and he worries about her. She's a survivor, and he knows she's capable, yet he can't help but feel responsible for her now that he's taken her from under Charles's wing. Charles, who can help him because he's been recruiting too and has always sought peaceful coexistence. He glances over the reports, articles and photographs scattered on the desk before him one last time before sweeping them all into a large brown envelope. Charles must see this, he decides, see that what he feared has already come to pass. Then he will understand. He thinks of their encounter at Westchester the previous month. If Charles hasn't already gone mad, he amends, he will understand.

The door opens as he seals the envelope, and it is Mystique who steps in. He didn't realize she had returned, but she alone never knocks before entering. There is a bit of a feline grace to her gait that wasn't there before, and she seems far more comfortable in her natural blue form than she used to be. He supposes, at least, he got one Xavier right. She places a similar large envelope on the desk.

"I copied the information before I deleted it. That way, we know what they know about us," she explains without preamble, dropping into a chair. "That official kept the most grotesque company."

"If you got everything, you needn't go back," he answers as he searches the drawers for mail supplies.

"I heard you visited Charles while I was away." Her tone is softer this time, concerned. "How is he?"

"Recovering. Distraught. He threw me out in a fit of rage."

The moment of silence that follows makes him look up just in time to see her expression shutter closed even as she lithely rises.

"Mystique. Raven. If you have something to say..."

"Men," she sighs, long-suffering, as she reaches for the door knob. "For someone so brilliant, sometimes, Charles is awfully stupid, but I thought you'd know better." She shakes her head, opening the door. "Charles doesn't do fits of rage, Erik. When he's angry, he talks to you with that patient indulgence and all-knowing condescension he's so good at, as if he's absolutely certain he can change your mind, because he's just that proud of a man." She's out the door and halfway to closing it when she pauses. "I called the mansion a couple of weeks ago, and it was Hank who picked up," she adds without turning, just barely loud enough for him to hear, but even at that volume, he catches the choked edge to her voice. "Did you know? The doctors said he'll never walk again."

He doesn't hear the door click shut above the sound of documents slipping to the floor.

* * *

><p>"So it's true," he whispers as he lets himself in through the window and dusts the snow off himself.<p>

Charles is sitting in a wheelchair by the fireplace in the room, a book on his lap, and the scene _hurts_ in so many ways. Erik can't reconcile it in his mind with his memories of the man who ran laps alongside Hank McCoy and danced with him in the garden, can't bear to see him wheel that clunky chair into a turn to look at him.

"Erik, do you _enjoy_ seeing me like this?"

There's that manic edge to his voice again, but Erik doesn't know how he missed that ill-disguised pain and longing the last time. Charles would never make it playing poker without his telepathy.

"Good God, Charles," he chokes out through gritted teeth as he strides across the room. "It won't work this time," he declares as he sinks to his knees before the other and removes his helmet to bury his face in a familiar lap.

Above him, he hears Charles inhale sharply, deeply, like a man pulled from drowning, and the crash of Charles's mind against his own is like a tidal wave on a desert. He's shaking. They're shaking. But it's still not enough, and he can't manage more than a strangled sob when Charles gingerly slips trembling hands into his hair to finally _touch_. His hands fist in dark blue wool.

_Erik., my Erik... my love,_ says the voice in his head because Charles can't speak. _I've missed you. I've missed you so much. I never wanted you to see me like this._

He doesn't say the word, doesn't even think it, but it hangs in the air, and it cuts like an executioner's axe because "I did this to you," Erik knows. He did it. Just like with Mama.

"You didn't know w—"

"No," he reaches up to clamp the younger man's mouth shut with his hand. "Don't console me, Charles. Don't simply forgive me."

_I'm afraid bearing a lifelong grudge isn't my forte_, comes the reply, and he can't help but wince at the jab.

"I'm sorry, Charles. I'm so sorry. If I'd known..." Remembering the events on the beach makes him turn his hand to caress a rounded cheek. He doesn't think it provides any comfort. "I even hit you," he whispers, remorseful. He only ever wanted to protect him, but on top of the disappointment the idealistic Charles faced that day, he only anguished him further. "And I didn't think..." He trails off because he can't finish, but he doesn't have to.

Charles says nothing, just runs his fingers through his hair tenderly. Something is different, however; the gesture is affectionate, but also restrained. Hesitant. Nervous. _Afraid._

_No,_ Charles interjects quickly. _No, it's not like that. I'm not afraid of you. Don't think that._

Erik looks up to offer him a wry smile. "You should be."

"It would be easier," Charles concedes, and it's a relief to see him smile back even a little.

And yet, there's still something wrong, and it doesn't take long to figure out what. The telepath is withdrawing from their mental contact, gradually so it's subtle, but he knows the feel of Charles's mind too well not to notice. In a swift motion, he slips his arms under the other's knees and back to lift him out of the chair. Charles yelps in surprise, instinctively reaching out telepathically to check his intentions, and he draws him in just like he used to once he'd learned how. Charles shudders and pulls away as if in pain, but not completely, and it _hurts_ for some reason as he lays the younger man on the bed and props him up with pillows.

For the lack of a better option, he asks, "Have you moved everything down from your room yet?"

Charles shakes his head. "It doesn't matter though. I already have the things I need. Everything else can wait."

"What about some things you _want_?"

The other shakes his head again. "You don't have to."

"I insist," he says, backing towards the window. "Let me do this much. If you don't tell me something specific, I will bring down whatever I see fit."

Charles doesn't, so he floats up to the third floor bedroom he remembers so well, eager to take his mind off the _distance_ at which Charles is keeping him. He takes all the remaining clothing from the wardrobe, levitating them by their metal hangers, as well as the two books on the bedside table, the wooden box filled with watches and cuff links from the dresser and the music box in the nightstand. When he's transported them all and set them down in their proper places, he winds the music box. Sitting on the bed as the sweet tinkle fills the air with the tune of a Chopin piano piece, he lays still legs across his lap and focuses on phrasing his next question.

"Who's been helping with..." The problem is both saying it in English and being sufficiently delicate.

"Mostly Hank and Alex," Charles answers, sparing him the struggle. "Sean does too, but he's better with Ororo."

Ororo must be the child he saw that day back in November. He nods and begins kneading slim calves through familiar grey sweatpants.

"What are y— You realize I can't..."

"Your circulation is deteriorating due to the lack of muscle movement," he explains softly, concentrating.

"How can you tell?"

"You of all people should know that blood has iron in it."

The lack of response makes him look up at the geneticist to catch his disquieted expression. His hands still.

"Charles, you know I'd never... I'd never do that to you."

The other closes his eyes. "It's not me I'm worried about, Erik."

There isn't anything positive he can say to that, so he remains silent and resumes massaging unmoving legs. He can't bear it, knowing that this is his fault, that there is nothing he can do. "Come with me, Charles," he pleads.

"Erik, please. We've had this conversation."

"Don't say that. Let me take care of you."

"Were that of great concern to you, you would have stayed." Charles's tone is final, sorrowful. "Will you?"

He doesn't answer because _I can't; you know I can't_, but some days, God knows he really wants to.

For once, Charles doesn't argue. Instead, he forces a smile and says, "You know, I've been thinking, and maybe it's better this way. Maybe the world needs you to show people that we can stand above them just as much as it needs me to show them that we are willing to stand beside them."

His grip tightens. "God damn it, Charles, you're such a fucking martyr."

"Aren't you, my friend? Going by that analogy, we simply have different religions."

Erik squeezes his eyes shut. "I found this island recently." _We can still have our kingdom, Charles._

Across their mental bond, Charles is terribly sad. "Hank is rebuilding Cerebro." _We already had it, Erik._

He exhales a shuddering breath as the music slows to silence. "D—Does he need help constructing the external transmitter?" He manages to keep his voice even.

It takes several moments for Charles to see it as the offer it is. "Erik, why?" The question comes as a hoarse whisper. "You shouldn't have to help us fight you."

He shakes his head. "Just as I know that peace is not an option, I know that not everyone is suited to war." _Like you._ "Even if they will not fight with me, our brothers and sisters should have someplace safe to go."

There is a long pause before Charles slowly manages, "I'll let Hank know. Thank you."

Nodding once, he returns his attention to rubbing now unused muscles, but as his fingers slide higher, it's too reminiscent of so many things now lost to them both, and he can't continue. This day could have been spent lighting candles and exchanging gifts; he could have been shaping a thin piece of silver around Charles's fourth finger over tea (and Charles would tell him it's too obvious) or playing chess to the accompaniment of a music box, but instead, they're sitting here talking about a future apart as Charles drinks a glass of water to help swallow the painkiller and supplements he's taking for his back, and it's all _his_ fault. Charles must have picked up on his misery because he reaches forward to squeeze his hand, and God, he misses everything they once were, everything they once had, everything that can no longer be because he...

"Erik, how can you still want... even like this?" Charles chokes out, barely audible, interrupting his thoughts.

He's moving before the thought, before the anger, grabbing the other by the jaw to hold him still and press their foreheads together to force Charles to meet his gaze. At this proximity, everything is so much sharper, so much harder, but he _needs_ to. "Listen to me, Charles, _listen_. I won't say this twice," he bites out slowly through gritted teeth, pausing to wait for blue eyes to focus with attention. "You're _perfect_, Charles. You _always will be_. So no matter what happens, don't you _ever_ let anyone or anything make you think otherwise. Do you understand me?"

Something flickers in Charles's eyes, and he knows the impact is made. He pulls back, but before he can even blink, red lips press hungrily to his own, and all of a sudden, they are kissing with an ardour he never thought he'd feel from Charles again. _Fuck._ It's hard and fast, like there's a desperate hunger they can't sate. _Charles, dear God._ He presses the other into the pillows fiercely. When Charles gasps for air, it sounds like a cross between a moan and a sob. Erik groans into his mouth, holding that familiar body to him like he never wants to let go. God, he never wants to let go. He doesn't know how he ever managed before. Then, just as suddenly, Charles is pushing him away.

"Go," he gasps as soon as he can speak, doubling over and wrapping his arms around himself.

"Charles?"

"_Go_, Erik. Go before I make you stay!"

The words sound like they're being ripped violently from him, and Erik knows better than to protest. He swiftly rises and grabs his helmet.

"Please," Charles chokes out. "Not in front of me."

Erik obliges him and glides out the window without it. As soon as the window closes, Charles leans back, drawing a trembling breath to calm his frayed nerves. The cut into emptiness feels like a cold slap to the soul, and he can't stop shaking. His gaze falls on one of the books Erik brought down from his room as his vision blurs. Love's Labours Lost. _How apt_, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut. _What is love compared to this?_


	10. Without You

**Chapter 9: Without You**

With the Vietnam War escalating and every other military power in the world occupied with their own more immediate concerns, the world seems content to leave Genosha alone. It hadn't been difficult to convince Charles to help him liberate the island once he'd shown him how their people were being treated. The problems came when the battle was won. Even after seeing their brothers and sisters on Genosha, Charles never stopped dreaming of peaceful coexistence, and another heated argument ended with his refusal to budge on his policies and Charles leaving to return to his school, discreetly helping many of the surviving humans escape. Now, four years of rebuilding and reorganizing later, the mutant kingdom is finally back on its feet, and for the first time in as many Decembers, Erik finds he has both the time and energy to wonder how his old friend is doing.

He hates it.

It is easier not to think of Charles, to distract himself with work so it doesn't nag at him just how much he misses having the younger man by his side. Time hasn't dulled the coldness of the bed or the emptiness in his head, and he hasn't heard from Charles since they parted ways for the second time. Not that he expected otherwise, given that he'd take another decade at Schmidt's hands or the Magistrates' over seeing the look on Charles's face when he'd yelled, "You're one to talk about being blinded. You can't even stand up to look out this window!" ever again. His footsteps echo hollowly in the hallway as he wonders if those are really going to be the last words he ever says to Charles. He regretted it instantly, but at the time, he was also far too angry to apologise. It must be a special skill they have, ruining things, and even after all this time, nothing hurts any less than it did four or five years ago.

He opens the door to his room to find Mystique draped seductively on his bed, the thin white sheet clinging to every voluptuous curve of her lithe body and leaving little to the imagination. "Mystique," he greets, forcing a cordial tone into his voice because this is precisely the last thing he needs right now.

"Erik," she returns the greeting, welcoming. "It's been quite a few years." Since the night she first pulled this stunt in her home in Westchester, yes. That is the problem exactly.

"Go back to your room. I'm tired," he tells her as he sits down, making a point of sounding just so.

"I'm sure I can help with that," she purrs, reaching for his shoulders to knead them firmly, yet another reminder that he neither needs nor wants.

He brushes her hands away. "No. Just leave."

She retreats, a sullen silence falling between them. "Maybe Hank was right after all," she utters bitterly.

"That's not it. Don't start with this again."

"Then what _is_ it?" she demands angrily, tossing the sheet off as she rises.

"It's..." He falters, wondering whether to tell her, _how_ to tell her.

"It _is_, isn't it?" she yells, mistaking his hesitation for the lack of a better reason. "In the end, you're just the same as the rest of them! You t—"

"Goddammit, Raven! It's that I can't look at you without thinking of your brother!" he shouts back, punching the wall in frustration.

In the stunned silence that follows, he can practically hear the cogs in her mind turning as she processes what he just said. "My... Charles? But wh— Oh. _Oh._ Good God." She doesn't apologise, but the look she gives him is worse.

"Good night, Mystique," he says stiffly. He doesn't need her pity.

"O—of course," she mumbles hurriedly, turning to leave. "Good night, Magneto."

Yet, as she opens the door, she pauses.

"You know," she begins without turning. "I used to think Charles was an idiot. Now I see you're _both_ even more foolish than I thought." She doesn't wait for a response, slamming the door behind her as she leaves, most likely headed towards Irene or Azazel's room.

* * *

><p>He hasn't been here in a long time, but the office is as bleak as Erik remembers. The air weighs down on him, and the coin on the table still won't move. Indeed, the scalpels in the lab next door are flying wildly now, but the coin won't even shiver. Herr Doktor reaches three and shoots. Mama collapses to the floor, and he doesn't want to see it again, but an invisible force presses on his face to make him turn against his will, and there she is. Crumpled. Bleeding. Dead. This time, he doesn't scream. This time, he crouches by her side, ignoring the Nazis all around him, and reaches out to take her into his arms like he should have done the first time all those years ago. What good was the rage and the screaming? It couldn't even preserve the last of her warmth.<p>

Suddenly, glassy eyes roll around to fix on him. "M—Mama?" He flinches away in shock.

"M–Mein Schatz," she rasps, her words stuttering and broken. Her voice is dry as sandpaper, as if her throat is falling apart from disuse and decay. "Warum hast du mir das a–angetan?"

He tries to tell her that he didn't, that he tried, but he can't speak, can only back away, away from that vacuous gaze and the unnatural angles of his mother's limbs.

"Mein Sch–Schatz," she calls again, falling to pieces. My sweetheart.

An arm twitches in his direction, and he screams—

—but his throat won't make more than a strangled cry of terror as he steps off a sudden ledge.

As pale yellow sand scatters in his wake, he picks himself up and tries to run. It could only be...

"Why are you still here, my friend?"

_No._ This time, he turns because he can't stop himself, because he wants to see him even if he knows things can only get worse. Charles is walking towards him in that silly navy and yellow suit from that day, and Erik tries very hard to ignore the trail of red the younger man leaves behind him on the beach. But he can't, and his vision is blurring. Some of the sand stinging his eyes is stained red too.

"Erik," Charles speaks again, and the warm hand that cups his cheek is gritty. "It's over. It's over, my love. It's time you left this behind. You've had your revenge."

He reaches up to cover Charles's hand with his own and squeeze it tightly. "No. No, Charles." He pulls the other closer with his free hand. "_I_ did this," he tells him, pressing his palm to the bleeding wound in the small of Charles's back, feeling the warm wetness seep into his skin. "To her _and_ to you."

As if suddenly reminded that he shouldn't be walking, Charles collapses against him, and Erik holds him up with an embrace, burying his face in chocolate-coloured hair.

"Hush..." Charles whispers into his ear soothingly, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. "Don't say that, Erik. The only thing you ever did was leave us both behind in the end."

* * *

><p>This is hardly the sort of reunion Charles prefers, in a prison constructed entirely of plastic, but between Logan stabbing Raven and Marie almost dying, he'll take what he can get with Erik. He knew Raven survived even before they saw her impersonation of Senator Kelly on television; it was hard to ignore her profuse apologies in his head for the dire results of her tampering with Cerebro. He believes her when she says she only intended to disable the machine, not cause him any harm. She's still his sister, after all; no amount of distance or time can change that.<p>

His old friend looks tired, grey, but when he glances up as the guards escort Charles in on a plastic wheelchair, there's still that magnetic vitality to his eyes; his mind is still sharp like the edge of a blade when the telepath touches it briefly in greeting, and Charles feels alive, more so than he's felt in years.

For an instant, Erik seems to waver, but a mask of easy insouciance swiftly slides into place. "Charles," he opens, cordial. "What an unexpected pleasure."

They haven't really spoken since the liberation of Genosha, short-lived encounters in battle notwithstanding, and Charles doesn't really know where to begin. He senses that Erik doesn't either, that there's an awkwardness between them now, that the years and the miles have only driven the wedge between them deeper into Erik's heart. He hates seeing Charles being wheeled in by the guards, as if he can't do it himself, as if he's an _invalid_, a—

"Erik, my old friend," he returns the greeting, more to distract the other than anything else. At the very least, tonight is the first night of Hanukkah, so he has an easy topic to switch to. "I have something for you," he says, pulling out the menorah from the large cloth bag on his lap. It's hand-crafted from fine china. All his personal feelings aside, Charles knows perfectly well that the world is safer with Erik in here. He hands over forty-four candles and a box of matches as the guards leave. "I suppose I just assumed you still observed the holiday, but..."

"You assumed right, for a change," Erik interjects, reaching out to take the items from him. "Thank you."

Their fingers brush briefly, and the feeling throws him. It's a sensation he hasn't felt in a long time, Erik inviting him in, but he keeps his expression unchanged. They must keep up appearances if he is to keep visiting. He may be able to fool the human mind, but cameras are hardly his area of expertise.

_Erik?_ he asks tentatively, hovering at the edge.

_Charles,_ the other calls as he deftly sets up the candles, and it's tinged with a longing he never expected to hear again. Even as he slides in, he wonders if it'll always be like this, if he'll always come running every time Erik even hints he'd like to see him, if every parting will hurt as much as it did a decade ago. Being in Erik's mind is achingly familiar in all the right ways, and already he regrets going in. _Why have you come?_ Erik asks, pained. _After what I said to you back then..._

It takes Erik's memory to remind him of precisely which instance the other is referring to. _God, Erik, that was almost ten years ago._

_What we had was even further back._

Hearing this from Erik is worse than anything anyone could possibly say about paraplegia, but outwardly, he forces a smile and takes out the glass chess set he brought with him. "Play a game with me, Erik, for old times' sake," he says, managing to keep his voice steady.

Erik is still terribly sad, but his smile at that is genuine. "Of course." They set up the board and play their opening moves before he continues, "What have you been up to without my Brotherhood to keep you busy, Charles?"

"Research, preparing lectures, teaching the children, grading... I'm a visiting professor at Cornell this year, and we've had some talented new students join the school recently." They exchange several moves. _Close your eyes._

Erik does so readily, and suddenly, he's blinking at sunlight on a mountain overlooking the sea. The ocean breeze is salty on his lips; it rustles the grass he is sitting on and the leaves of the trees behind him. A hand takes his own and squeezes affectionately. He turns to look at Charles, whose free hand is stroking a fluffy white cat with chocolate brown points. The purring fur ball reminds him oddly of its owner in his youth.

"What would you name a cat if you had one, Erik?"

"Male or female?" he asks, wondering why they are having this conversation, of all things.

"This one's a tabby."

He thinks for a moment, then answers, "Lotti."

Charles nods once, scratching the cat behind its ears, then says, "Lotti, go back inside."

Erik watches as the feline pads back into the small white cottage behind them, white paws picking a path through the herb garden in front of it.

"I still believe that we can have this someday, you know," Charles whispers, and this time, Erik can't help pulling the other into a crushing embrace. He's wanted to, every single time, but it was never the right situation. Now callused hands bury themselves in his hair as Charles rests his head on his shoulder. "Do you still want to?"

He doesn't know why Charles has to ask, as if he ever stopped. "You're the one who said you didn't anymore."

"When... Oh." A pause. "Christ, Erik, _that's_ what you meant?"

The response takes him aback. "What? H— Ah." He laughs ruefully as realization strikes. "You always were too reliant on your gift."

Charles's arms wrap around him tightly. "Raven's right; we've been such fools," he admits sadly. "I've missed this, missed _you_. But that's not enough, is it?"

He tightens his hold on the younger man's waist and plants a kiss on a bare scalp. "To protect us? No, Charles, I'm afraid it isn't. It never was and never will be."

The next time he opens his eyes, they are back in that plastic room, and Charles is making his next move on the chessboard. His smile is sad, but his tone is conversational when he speaks.

"I watched a movie on television earlier this month. It's called 'That Certain Summer.' It made me think... that the world may finally be changing, my friend. It renews my hope in my dream. You should watch it."

He plays his response, then leans back and scoffs bitterly, "Charles, you never give up, do you?" He's irritated, irritated that despite their personal feelings, he knows better than to imagine that Charles will help him escape.

Just then, the guard enters to announce that visiting hours are over. _On you? How could I?_ Charles nods at the guard and lets the man wheel him away. "Leave the board as it is, Erik," he says, squeezing his shoulder as they pass. "I'll come again."

As the plastic door slides shut, Erik thinks he'd almost rather he didn't. It's the worst, seeing each other like this, waiting for the inevitable. And yet... _Charles?_ he calls, knowing the telepath will hear him.

_Yes?_

_I've missed you too._

Charles's answer isn't verbal, but it makes him bury his face in his hands. It never gets any easier.


	11. Eternity

**Chapter 10: Eternity**

The chess piece on the table has a steel base that he can't sense, and Erik has to check once more just to make sure he isn't dreaming it. He's tired of this, of willing the stone bishop to move ineffectually, but he doesn't stand. The ground feels strange beneath his feet, and it's easier to get lost of late, so he prefers to be sitting here, where he can see the moving vehicles coming, and they can't surprise him as they drive up from behind. Maybe this is what it feels like to lose some vital part of yourself. Maybe this is how Charles felt when he lost his legs on the beach that day, when Erik took his legs from him. Maybe this is retribution, come twenty years late.

Frustrated, he returns his attention to the bishop and demands that it _movemovemove, dammit_, but just like the coin almost four decades ago, it stubbornly refuses to budge, won't even quiver under the force of his determination. It takes every ounce of self-restraint he has not to throw it at an oncoming car.

Too late he hears the creak of wheels trampling the grass behind him. He doesn't get a chance to turn before a pair of hands close over his eyes, and he's falling into inky blackness.

* * *

><p>Jean Grey's power is so great that the house is levitating, and he can't stand from the sheer pressure. All he can do is watch from where he's lying sprawled on the kitchen floor as Charles engages her in a battle of wills, and Erik knows that no matter how powerful Charles is, his ability isn't physical like hers is, that she will rip her mentor apart if the deadlock doesn't break soon. He doesn't expect the surge of panic that thought induces, and his mutation locates the silver frame on the mantel before he even notices that he's casting out for usable metal objects in the vicinity. Seeing how she is utterly occupied with Charles, he lifts it and sends it hurtling into the back of her head. The redhead collapses to the ground along with the rest of the house, and Erik gingerly picks himself up. Even the greatest power is nothing without a will to command it, and for now, the girl's consciousness is absent. He's not as young as he used to be, he reflects, stretching his sore body.<p>

"Erik," Charles calls as he wheels himself closer, and he turns to realize that everyone in the house is frozen except for them.

"Charles, what are you planning?"

"There is something I must do, my friend, something only I can do now, and for it to succeed, no one must know. No one must look for me. They will think me dead. Do not tell them the truth."

He narrows his eyes. "Tell me and let me decide if I should let you leave."

"Erik, please. You will do as you feel you must, and I must do what I must, but trust that I would never cause our people any harm."

"Not directly," he ripostes. By helping humans, Charles may as well be hurting mutants. He's surprised by the arms wrapping around his hips suddenly. "Charles? What..."

The other lets go to look up at him. "Listen, Erik, I—" His eyes flick back over his shoulder. "Christ, she's stirring. There's no time. I must go." He wheels himself hurriedly towards the door, but as he's about to leave, he turns, and there's a kind of desperation in his eyes that Erik hasn't seen in nearly two decades. "Wait for me, Erik. I'll find you. And take care of Jean, won't you, my friend? She's like a daughter to me."

With that, he leaves, and everyone unfreezes as Erik stares after him in confusion. It occurs to him to suspect that the gesture may have been a distraction to get past him, but as subtly devious as Charles can be, he somehow doubts that he'd use their complicated relationship that way. After all, there have been other times when it would have served him better to, and he hadn't.

Wolverine is by Jean's side in a flash, while Storm (Charles calls her Ororo) follows him in but turns to face Erik instead. "Magneto," she acknowledges quietly, drawing him out of his reverie. "Even with the Professor g—"

"I'm not here to fight," he interrupts as a certain redhead sits up behind her and looks right at him, perhaps intrigued by the helmet blocking her telepathy or maybe displeased with him about the bump on her head. "I'm here to ask Miss Grey to make a simple choice."

* * *

><p>Familiar fingers are tangled in his hair when he awakes on a stone bench with his head in a lap covered in fine fabric he'd recognize anywhere.<p>

"You know I hate it when you do that, Charles," he grumbles without moving. He's never been very good at staying mad at Charles, and especially not when his oldest friend's fingertips are massaging circles into his scalp.

Charles winds a gray curl around his index finger as he looks down with a fond smile. "If you'd rest whenever you're weary, my friend, I wouldn't ever have to."

"You promised you'd never do that again."

"I promised I'd never _keep_ you asleep," he corrects mildly, handing the hat back, and Erik decides against arguing semantics with Charles's eidetic memory.

"The fine print isn't the point, Charles," he mutters, annoyed, sitting up. "Why are you here?"

The other wheels himself around and begins rearranging the pieces on the stone table. "Chess is an awfully dull game to play alone." He looks up expectantly when he's done until Erik plays an opening move and responds to it. "Do you know what day it is today, Erik?"

Erik looks up from the board to fix a withering look upon him. "It's Monday, Charles. I'm depowered, not senile."

"Of course," he agrees, ever the indulgent professor. "Beyond the obvious, I mean."

After a moment's thought, Erik replies, "I don't suppose something monumental happened in the arena of mutant affairs while I've been indisposed," as he moves his rook forward.

Charles's expression grows wistful as he takes a knight with a pawn, shaking his head. "Regrettably, no." They exchange several moves in silence before he speaks again, more quietly this time. "Today is exactly the twentieth anniversary of the night I first asked you to stay. I don't suppose you remember?" The words are punctuated with a soft sigh as he moves another pawn forward. "Perhaps it's as White says: we all give the best of our hearts uncritically to those who hardly think about us in return."

Erik catches his hand as he sets the stone piece down. "Of course I remember. How could I forget? But tell me, Charles," he says, pulling the other around the table towards him. "Is that what you thought in all this time we've spent taking turns playing King Pellinore and the Questing Beast?"

At that, Charles smiles with genuine pleasure. "You read my favourite novel."

"Solitary imprisonment leaves a man with far too much free time. You're wrong about one thing, though," he tells the other, leaning forward towards him.

"And what is that?" Charles asks, mirroring the gesture with interest.

"Not a moment passes in which I don't think about you, Charles," he murmurs as he closes the distance between them, and for a moment, they are young men once more, sharing their scars and dreams beneath the moonlight.

It's Charles who deepens the kiss, pressing closer and cupping his cheek with his free hand. He's lost all his chubbiness, once smooth hands are callused, and Erik misses the softness of chocolate brown hair to bury his face in, but when their tongues intertwine, it's like no time has passed and nothing has changed. And when they part, they're as breathless and unhinged as the first time they barely made it across the back lawn to their quarters before tearing each other's clothes off. Charles laces their fingers, sliding the hand on his cheek into his hair to press their foreheads together.

"Come home with me," he whispers because his voice would falter. "Please."

The other smiles wistfully. "Haven't we had this conversation?"

"Don't say that. Don't say that, Erik," he pleads like he knows he should have two decades ago. "I'm afraid we don't have another twenty years between us, my love."

That makes Erik open his eyes to properly _look_. Suddenly, he realizes what Charles intended to say that day in Jean Grey's childhood home, why the other sought him out as soon as he achieved his objective. Even a mutant's lifespan is finite, and that reality has never weighed upon the younger man more heavily than it did then.

_I don't know why I waited so long to tell you not to leave. See, I knew you would; I always knew, but... You said you wanted me by your side. Do you still? Don't you still?_

And Erik can't help but think that Charles has never been less coherent, and yet, never more clear. "Charles..."

_If you still believe that "together" is the word that matters,_ Charles tightens his grip on the older man's hand. _That we always will be, that we still can be... Erik, that's all I really need._

He watches as Erik closes his eyes slowly, swallows thickly and exhales a shuddering breath. "You haven't changed one bit, have you?" There is a sardonic hint to his chuckle as he puts his hat back on and turns away to rearrange the chess pieces again. "Everything's always about you."

Charles closes his eyes, saying nothing. The sudden movement of the wheelchair takes him by surprise. "Erik?"

"Which way, Charles? I'm afraid my directional sense is completely off-kilter right now," Erik explains, pushing the wheelchair through the park towards the exit. He remembers with perfect clarity the last time he saw Charles light up exactly the way he does now. And it's all right, he thinks, if Charles will always be an egocentric brat, if his most rational decisions are made on a chess board, or if he'll always be a dreamer and a little bit blinded to the truth. It's precisely because Charles can cling to an ideal forever that he never thinks it's too late to start over.

"I—I'll have someone pick us up. We just need to be somewhere a jet can land in," the telepath replies excitedly, pressing a cheek to Erik's knuckles in open affection. Several minutes later, Charles seems to compose himself, but he can't quite conceal the long-lost twinkle to his blue, blue eyes. "Thank you."

There's a lightness to everything suddenly, and it doesn't even seem to matter that the Earth can't tell him which way is north anymore. He circles around and leans down so they're eye to eye, resting his hands on Charles's knees. "Have you forgotten? There's never been anyone but you. It's about time _you_ kept your promises."

Charles tugs him into a fierce embrace, burying his face in his shoulder. "Always, my love," he agrees. "Yours. Never anything but. God, Erik, I'll never let you go again. I don't even know how I did it the first time."

* * *

><p>When the X-Jet lands, it's Rogue who runs out first to greet them happily. "Professor!" She freezes when she catches sight of him. "M—Magneto?" Of course. She still hasn't forgotten the affair at Liberty Island, not that the streak of white in her hair will ever let her forget.<p>

"It's all right, Marie. He won't h—"

Charles doesn't get to finish because, just then, Wolverine runs up and grabs him by the collar. Without any preamble, he punches Charles hard enough to possibly fracture his jaw. Marie gasps. He's about to do it again, but Erik deflects the blow.

"Stay outta this, Magneto. You won't be stopping these claws this time," he snarls.

_Let him, Erik. I deserve this._

Erik glares at Charles. _This again?_

Wolverine grabs Charles by the collar. "Where _were_ you?" he demands.

"Logan," Ororo chastises from behind him as she steps out of the plane.

"Where were you when shit was going down, when Jean was..."

"You don't seriously believe that was all they had to throw at us, do you?" Erik interrupts. _You deserve what, exactly, Charles? To let him take his anger out on you, so you can feel better about going away on your covert mission when there was a chance you could have accomplished something better by staying?_

Charles flinches. _There wasn't anything I could have done. The only way I could have saved her was to reseal the personality that was destroying her, and Phoenix was already too powerful._

"You could have saved her, goddammit!" Logan yells, shoving Charles back into his wheelchair roughly.

_Then why do you deserve what, Charles?_ he presses.

"No, Logan, I'm afraid there was nothing I could have done," Charles admits quietly. "The only way to prevent what happened was to reseal Phoenix, and I couldn't. She wouldn't let me. I'm so sorry. I... Jean was like a daughter to me." _And yet, sometimes I think that maybe if I hadn't been thinking about you that day when we were fighting... maybe I could have slipped more than that final trick I used to escape past her defenses._

Erik stiffens. _You what?_

"Damn it. Damn it all!" Logan turns, driving his claws into a nearby tree, but he has the look of a broken man, a look Erik has seen many times before. However, he also knows that this man is strong, that he'll recover in time.

_I couldn't possibly have sealed Phoenix away again, but perhaps... Doesn't it ever haunt you? The possibility that you could have done something just a little bit differently?_

_You know exactly how much it does, Charles._

The telepath reaches for his hand to squeeze it. _Yes, of course, I'm sorry. But that's just it. Maybe there was some way I could have saved her. I don't know how, but I..._

He relaxes. _If you don't know how, then it's completely moot, and you know that._

Ororo glances at their linked hands but doesn't look surprised. After all, she came to Westchester in the early days when they rebuilt Cerebro together, and Charles still could barely look at or talk to or about him without seeming utterly broken. Instead, she says, "Professor, we thought you were dead."

"I'm terribly sorry about that, Ororo. But I needed you all not to look for me while I was gone, and there was no time to explain. Tell me, how is Jimmy adjusting to life at the Institute?"

"He's doing fine, Professor." It's Marie who replies, stepping closer, although she's still wary. "He has the room next to mine. People are still getting used to being unable to use their powers around him, though," she adds with a nervous laugh.

"That's good. Thank you, Marie." Charles smiles. "Erik, say something, won't you?"

"Such as?"

"Such as you won't attempt to start a war once you've moved back in with me."

Marie and Logan both stare at Charles in shock. Ororo just smiles knowingly. No one missed the word 'back.' Not 'with us' either, but 'with _me_.'

"Say what?" Logan's disbelief is to be expected. There was that ugly business that brought about Onslaught some time back, after all.

Erik decides to spare Charles the effort of explaining.


	12. Avalon

**Chapter 11: Avalon**

There are two women waiting on the doorstep when they return to Westchester one rather awkward plane ride later. The one with short dark hair walks towards them as they descend from the jet, but she doesn't get very near before Logan extends his claws, sniffing the air.

"It's _her_," he growls, pushing past them to the front. "I'd recognize that smell anywhere."

"It's all right, Logan. She's not here to fight," Charles says calmly. "Isn't that right, Raven?"

"Charles, I... I know this is hardly the best idea, but well, Irene and I, we don't really have anywhere else to go."

She doesn't even look at him, and it occurs to Erik to ask, _Charles, are you upset that I left her behind?_

_As opposed to keeping her on the front lines without her powers, Erik? Not especially._ Aloud, Charles says, "Nonsense. As if I'd let you go anywhere else, young lady. Now, come here and give your brother a hug."

"Your brother?" Logan repeats incredulously. "Is this a joke?"

"I'm afraid not," Erik replies matter-of-factly. "She grew up here. Charles took her in when she was ten."

Raven runs over to throw her arms around Charles. "Goodness, you look old enough to be my father now!" She's only two years younger, but she doesn't look a day older than thirty.

"You're one to complain about resemblance, Raven," he responds with a happy laugh, returning the hug. "Why did you try to be a blonde? We'd have looked more like siblings if you'd stuck to this natural hair colour of yours."

"I didn't remember this was the colour at the time, Charles. I figured your mother's hair colour was plausible enough." She walks beside him back towards where the brunette is waiting. _Say, Charles, are you mad at me?_

_For telling them where to find Erik? No. Tact never was a strong suit of his, and well, you kept him from committing genocide._ "You must be Irene. Ah, how intriguing! Charles Xavier," he opens, extending his hand.

She stands and adjusts her sunglasses before shaking his hand. "Yes, Irene Adler. I see..."

"Irene? What is it?" Raven asks, sounding concerned.

"No. No, the future is looking brighter," she answers with a small smile.

Charles smiles as the doors open, and Marie runs into Bobby's arms. Piotr greets Logan with a wave, and Kitty is already telling Ororo about taking Jimmy for an outing on the town. It's a little awkward when they notice Erik and Raven; after a bit of explanation, though, they seem hesitant, but ready to give the new living arrangements a try. And as Erik pushes him across the threshold, Charles thinks that they can make this work. For the first time, it's more than just a mansion, more than just a school. For the first time, it truly feels like home. So as Raven heads to the kitchen with the others to help make dinner, he turns to Irene and nods.

"Yes. Yes, I think so too."

* * *

><p>Charles is still smiling like a fool as Erik helps him into bed later that night, and he hasn't let Erik out of his sight all day, as if he's afraid Erik will disappear if he takes his eyes off him for even a minute. Erik finds it difficult to mind the absurdity of it all. Time hasn't made it any easier to watch Charles lift one leg at a time with his hands to move them into a comfortable position beneath the covers, however, and as Erik crawls into bed to join the other, a hint of regret brings a wistful smile to his face. Charles immediately pulls him into his arms, so Erik's head is resting on his chest, just like he used to all those years ago. He tucks the blankets around them both and tangles his fingers in gray curls soothingly.<p>

"What are you thinking of?" he asks quietly.

"Why do you ask when you already know?"

He shakes his head. "It's not as difficult not to as it used to be. May I?"

Maybe it's not true that nothing has changed, even though Charles has been acting like it all day. In a way, it's a good change. Charles is asking now for what used to come naturally, finally keeping some of his promises, and Erik lets himself believe that, this time, they can discover something better. He tilts his head up to kiss the other, and the lips that meet his are gentle. For the most part, Charles always has been gentle, whether he was holding him down to fuck him into the mattress or cradling him close to comfort him. He's not sure how it turns so urgent, whose impatience takes hold, but all the things that drew them to each other two decades ago are too easy to remember, and Charles is fiddling with the buckle on his belt. He catches the other man's hand.

"No," he whispers against the side of his lover's mouth. "Charles, don't. You can't."

"I can if you'll let me," Charles replies, and the telepath's mind slides against his own, searing with longing.

"What? Why didn't you ever say so?"

Charles looks away. "I didn't think you'd ever want to."

Erik frowns. "How could you possibly think I'd mind?"

Charles closes his eyes. "You put that helmet on for a reason," he replies, and it throws Erik to realize that they're speaking of different things, that it has hurt Charles from the start.

"Please," he says, coming to a decision. _All the way._

The breath hitches in Charles's throat. "No," he whispers. "I can't, Erik. I can't. If I did, I wouldn't be able to let go."

Erik reaches up to trace the lines that the years have wrought on the other's face. Age clearly hasn't mellowed this intensity. "I thought you said you'd never let me leave again."

"You, of all people, should know that I would never force you."

Of course. Today, as he has every time for the last twenty years, as he did this very same night mere days after they first met, Charles has given him choices. Even when he probably should have pleaded or willed him to obey, Charles would give him choices. As if he knew that that was when Erik would stop wanting them.

"And you, of all people, should know that if my intention were fleeting, I would not have come with you today." Charles turns at that, hope brilliant in his blue eyes, and he feels a long-forgotten smile tug at his lips. He doesn't wait for Charles to speak. "You'll never have to again."

The rush of _Charles_ that crashes over him is overwhelming like the way his body responds to the rough caress, and it feels complete in a way he'd never noticed he wasn't.

_How long...?_

_It doesn't matter. It's never like this with anyone else._ "Perfection," he breathes.

_I've missed you. I've missed you so much._

He's not prepared for Charles leaning down, for the hot wet suction that engulfs him, for needing to muffle his groan in a pillow when his lover's throat constricts and vibrates as he moans wantonly around his length.

_Fuck, Charles... I want—_

_But I—_

_God, I don't care. Let me taste you._

They shift, and he can't tell Charles's thoughts from his own any longer. Everything in his head is wrong in all the right ways, and he can't hold back.

_Please..._ It's him; it's Charles; it's both; it's neither. _Please, it's been so long..._ His hips jerk as his vision whites out, and Charles begins coughing violently.

_Charles, are you—_

_I'm fine_, Charles insists, sitting up and reaching for the pitcher of water by the bedside to soothe his throat, and Erik feels somewhat like himself again.

"It really must have been a long time, Charles," he says with a chuckle. "It never used to be a problem."

Charles shoots him a withering look over the rim of his glass. _I never wanted this with any other._

For every possible meaning of 'this,' the sentiment is twenty years late, but he doesn't suppose he has the right to complain. He sighs, falling back into Charles's waiting arms. "How did it come to this, Charles?" he whispers hoarsely. The other doesn't answer, only rubs circles into his scalp, his fingertips catching in gray curls. "I thought I could change something. Had I known things would end up this way regardless, I would have stayed."

"Then stay. You can still change things," Charles tells him gently with a smile. "This is only the beginning. Our people are still out there, waiting for us. Even now, you'd fight those battles all over again, wouldn't you?"

He scoffs. "What can I do without my powers?"

The professor shakes his head. "We'll think of something. Now isn't the time to be giving up, is it?"

He can't help laughing at the unexpected encouragement even as Charles switches the bedside lamp off. "Good grief, Charles. Didn't you always want me to stop fighting?"

"Never, Erik. I wanted you to change your methods. Violence isn't the only form of battle, my friend. Haven't I told you as much countless times before? If Gandhi succeeded, why can't we?"

"Even now, you still believe that together we can change the world?" He'd be more incredulous were he not talking about Charles Francis Xavier.

"Undoubtedly and unreservedly," Charles answers brightly, reaching for his hand. "I meant every word I said. About you, about my dream, about everything we could have together."

He closes his eyes. No. No, he wouldn't. "Let's try it your way this time then," he concedes, lacing their fingers as they settle in to sleep. "But Charles, you're wrong, you know. I wouldn't. If I had known then that this would be the end, I never would have left you."


	13. Fata Morgana

**Epilogue: Fata Morgana**

It's the cold that wakes him, the cold and the dampness from the dew on the grass. Erik sits up in shock at the realization that he's outside with no idea of how he got there, and his first instinct is trouble. He looks around for it, finding Charles next to him, and he's about to wake the other man when it hits him.

Charles is... young.

His own hand, halfway to the other's shoulder, is smooth and unwrinkled. It takes a moment of thought, but he remembers. This very morning has been burned into his memory for years, the day he always regretted most. It is the twenty-fourth of October 1962, and he shouldn't wake Charles. Even if this is a dream, he shouldn't wake Charles. For once, his dream should go better than reality. But, of course, just then, Charles stirs.

Bleary eyes blink up at him, concerned. "Erik? What is it? Why are you... confused? Afraid?" Charles sits up. "I'm fine, you know. The headache's gone. What has you so spooked suddenly?"

Something isn't right. Charles is never like this in his dreams. This is too like him, too real.

"Let me wake up, Charles," he pleads in a whisper. "I don't want to relive this day."

Instead of ignoring the very notion that this is not reality as he usually does, Charles frowns, looking confused. "Erik, what are you talking about? This isn't a dream. Look, isn't it cold?" Charles pinches his arm. "Does that hurt? If you were dreaming, that wouldn't hurt, and this chill would have woken you by now."

It's true, what he says, but the same could be said of the other side, and could he have dreamed up every day in twenty years to come? As his mind settles on the only possibility, the anger comes rushing.

"Charles, this isn't funny."

The telepath flinches, taking his hand. "What? What's gotten into you today, Erik?"

"Stop this, Charles. I know you can hear me. Stop whatever it is you're doing."

"Erik, you're starting to worry me. I'm not doing anything," he insists, anxiety written all over his face.

"Then everything over there is your doing?" Erik cries, flinging the other's hand off and rising to back away. "Is this what you meant when you said you were tired of being helpless? You'd stoop to using your powers to get your way now?"

"What? No! I'd never; you know I'd never!" Amidst the worry and confusion in blue eyes, hurt swirls quickly to the surface. "What is _over there_, Erik? Why are you being like this, suddenly?"

"Look, Charles," he snarls, "one of these is an illusion of your creation, and I know it. So drop it."

"Bloody hell, Erik! I'm not— I haven't done anything!" Charles very nearly screams in frustration.

"Very well, Charles. If you insist on feigning ignorance, we have nothing left to talk about."

He storms out and lets the magnetic field of the earth levitate him away. Nothing could have prepared him for the weight that suddenly slams into him and drags him back to the ground, however. He'd forgotten how athletic Charles used to be. He reflexively throws the younger man off him with a wave of his hand, and Charles gasps sharply in pain when he hits the ground, landing on his left side and rolling several times. It seems like he might have broken an arm, and damn it all, but instinct makes Erik rush to his side before he can stop himself. Before he can check on the injury, however, Charles grabs his elbow with his right hand.

"Erik, please," he whispers through gritted teeth. "If you're going to storm off like this, at least tell me why."

"You _know_ why."

"No, Erik, I don't. I swear to you; I haven't done a thing. Does my word mean nothing to you anymore?"

"You never were very good at keeping your promises," he ripostes, and the way Charles's face contorts tells him that his words hurt more than the physical pain.

"God damn it, Erik, tell me. Tell me what I've done wrong. Tell me what I'm doing wrong. Don't make me read your mind to find out."

"You're proving my point."

The grip on his elbow tightens. "Knowing is better than this." Charles squeezes his eyes shut. "Look, I know." He swallows thickly, meeting Erik's gaze once more. "I know you'll leave someday, maybe today. But not like this, Erik. Please. Not because you're angry about something I don't even know and most probably haven't done. At least tell me what it is." He doesn't look like he's lying, Erik concedes.

"Go ahead then. Jog your memory, and tell me if you have a better explanation."

Charles hesitates momentarily, checking for second thoughts, perhaps, and then closes his eyes, diving in. He inhales sharply in surprise as he begins sifting through the memories. "Wh—What is this?" he breathes.

"You tell me, Charles."

He begins going through the days more quickly. "I don't... I've never... Oh God, Erik."

He immerses himself more deeply, sometimes skimming, but always slowing down whenever they are together. Erik doesn't know how much time passes as he sits beside Charles on the grass with the telepath just looking into his memories in silence, but when it's over, Charles's eyes are moist, and he opens his mouth to speak, but no words come. _You came back_, he sends instead, smiling like all is right with the world. _You came back, Erik._

"That's not the point, Charles."

Charles shakes his head. "I don't know what that is, Erik, and I don't know how to make you believe me." He sighs, taking Erik's hand. "Do you think I could take it? Knowing that you didn't, _wouldn't_ choose me freely?"

Erik isn't sure he _should _believe the telepath. "Too much of a blow to your pride?" he taunts anyway.

Charles only closes his eyes and intertwines their fingers, remaining silent.

"How do you know?" he asks at last. "How do you know that that is the dream?"

Charles opens his eyes to look up at him. "You mean as opposed to this? Like the Chinese philosopher who thought he was a butterfly?"

"No, like the butterfly who thought he was a Chinese philosopher." Erik frowns. "But that doesn't answer the question."

"No," Charles agrees, furrowing his brow in deep thought. After a long moment of contemplation, he shakes his head. "I don't know. I believe this is reality, of course, but I can't say I know of a way to prove it." He lets Erik help him sit up. "But knowing that could be reality, it's less important to me whether or not this is," Charles continues, wincing in pain as his arm is moved. "If we're happy, that's all that matters, isn't it?"

"If this is reality, you need a hospital," Erik points out as they rise, ever practical.

The other shakes his head. "I don't think it's broken, just terribly sore and bruised." Despite that, he leads the way back towards the mansion. "Still, it seemed so real... Do you think that could be our future?"

"It's a possibility." Dream or reality, he lived every day of it, and the memories are as real as the iron deposits in the ground beneath his feet. He doesn't know which he'd prefer it to be.

A long silence falls between them. Finally, "If that is the future, Erik, I can wait," Charles says quietly as they reach the driveway. "If I know you'll come back, I can wait. No matter how long it takes."

He stills. It's less selfish than he'd expect of Charles, or rather, it's precisely the sort of misguided egocentric self-sacrifice that Charles does so well, and that is exactly what irks him. "I can't," he tells him. "That's not the future I want." There's nothing ideal about two decades of futile fighting for a future in which humans are using medical technology to drive them into extinction. The world isn't just about the two of them. No, he _wouldn't_ do it all over again. He won't let that come to pass. Whether or not this is real, it can be better. It _should_ be better.

The younger man spins around then and grabs at his shoulder with his good hand, unheeding of his injured arm. "Listen to me, Erik. Please," he says, fiercely insistent, misunderstanding. "We can fix this. I know we can. Even if it takes ten, twenty, thirty years, I _know _we can. So don't— Don't say that. It doesn't have to end like this."

Charles is about to continue, but Erik silences him with a thumb to red lips, cupping a rounded cheek with his hand. "I've already lived twenty years without you, Charles. Never again."

It takes Charles by surprise, but the smile that then blossoms on his face is brighter than the sunrise on the horizon. "Do you... Do you really mean that?"

"No matter what happens today, don't let me leave."

The force with which Charles embraces him, even with just one arm, is startling. "I won't," he promises, barely above a whisper. "I won't. Let's make this work, Erik. Together."

Erik smiles, his fingers tangling in chocolate hair. If there is any truth to what he has seen, he knows what he must do. Today, they go to stop nuclear war, and he's going to bury Shaw at the bottom of the ocean with his submarine, nuclear reactor and all. This time, Charles isn't going to get shot, and they'll both come back here. This time, they'll fight together instead of against each other, and maybe they really can change the world.

"Hm?" Charles perks up suddenly with interest. "Someone's here," he says, walking briskly towards the front door with Erik close behind. "One of us," he adds with sudden excitement.

The brunette waiting on the doorstep looks impossibly familiar when she turns, pushing her rectangular sunglasses higher up the bridge of her nose. Charles, of course, ever the gentleman, hurries over to greet her.

"Good morning. My name is Charles Xavier." He extends his hand. "What has brought you here today, Miss...?"

"Irene Adler," she says, taking Charles's hand, and suddenly, Erik thinks he understands. "I seek a blue girl with red hair." She gasps as soon as their fingers touch. "O—Our future... It's changed. For so long, it never differed."

Charles turns to look at him. "For the better, I hope," he says with a radiant smile as Erik comes to stand by his side on the steps.

"Somewhat," she agrees, recovering from her surprise. "But much is yet unclear to me."

That hardly seems to matter to Charles. "Why don't you come in and make yourself at home, Irene?" he suggests brightly. "I'll wake Raven, and we can talk over breakfast."

They let themselves into the mansion, and Irene takes a seat in the living room as he follows Charles up the stairs. As they pass his room, however, it feels like it's been twenty years since they've been here, since Charles swore he'd never belong to anyone else. He pulls Charles inside. The telepath smiles, pressing two fingers to his temple to wake Raven instead.

_Charles?_ she answers sleepily, mildly irked at being disturbed earlier than expected.

_Sorry to wake you, Raven, but someone's waiting for you in the living room. It seems important. You should hurry down to see her._ He breaks the connection abruptly with a gasp because what Erik is doing makes it hard to even remain standing, and he almost, _almost_, let that slip. "God," he breathes, pressing their foreheads together and squeezing his eyes shut. "Promise me. Promise me, Erik, that you won't regret this."

"I know you've been holding back. You don't have to anymore. Give me everything this time."

It's enough of an answer, and Charles doesn't hesitate. _I want to wake up to you,_ he says as their minds intertwine. _Every morning. Always. Forever._

Erik presses him into the mattress. "Make love to me, Charles," he murmurs into his ear, and Charles laughs as he rolls them over to comply.

"You're awfully romantic all of a sudden."

"Being fifty does that to you," comes the wry reply.

"You know, Erik, I take that back. I don't think I could wake up from this."

Erik laughs breathlessly. "Good, because I don't think you will."

Charles stills, frowning. "Wait, you think I— I couldn't _possibly_ have—"

"Shut up," he interrupts, dragging his lover down for a kiss. _We still have a war to stop in three hours._

That seems good enough for Charles, and for once, Erik is content to let it slide.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed my first Big Bang submission and second fic in this fandom. This was originally published on 10th December 2011, and I've finally found the time to upload it here. I look forward to hearing your thoughts on it.


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